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TWO  YEARS  AGO. 


TWO 


YEARS 


AGO 


BY 

CHARLES  glNGSLEY,  F.S.A.  F.L.S. 

CANON  OF  WESTMINSTER  AND  RECTOR  OF  EVERSLEY. 


Itmtium : 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 
1873. 


[The  Eight  of  Translation  and  Reproduction  is  reserved .] 


PR 

$ z 

* 7 a 


ISU 


LONDON : 

n.  CLAY,  SONS,  AND  TAYLOR,  PRINTERS, 
BREAD  STREET  HILL. 


t 0^°' 


« 


CONTENTS. 


PAQ3 

INTRODUCTORY , , * , 1 

CHAPTEE  I. 

POETRY  AND  PROSE  - ...  18 

CHAPTEE  JL 

STILL  LIFE  . . 39 

CHAPTEE  III. 

ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE 53 

CHAPTEE  IY. 

FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND 65 

CHAPTEE  V. 

THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM 88 

CHAPTEE  VI. 

AN  OLD  FOE  WITH  A NEW  FACE  . 99 

CHAPTEE  VII. 

104 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PAGE 

TAKING  ROOT 

CHAPTER  IX. 

“AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER?5 133 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  RECOGNITION 146 

i 

CHAPTER  XL 

THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT 178 

CHAPTER  XIL 

A PEER  IN  TROUBLE 193 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

l’homme  incompris 201 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY , . . „ 212 

CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATEEWITCH . 248 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

COME  AT  LAST  t . * . . 287 

CHAPTER  XVIL 

BAALZEBUB’s  BANQUET  ...............  299 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  BLACK  HOUND  . . « 315 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

BKDDGELERT . - 327 


CONTENTS. 


vii 

CHAPTER  XX. 

PAGK 

BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE  351 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

nature’s  melodrama 372 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

fond,  yet  not  foolish  . . . . 389 

CHAPTER  XXlII. 

THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR . , . . 396 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER 405 

CHAPTER  XXY. 

THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER 424 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TOO  LATE 451 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER  . . . , . . 469 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE 


483 


TWO  YEARS  AGO- 


-4, 

INTRODUCTORY. 

It  may  seem  a somewhat  Irish  method  of  beginning  the  story 
of  “ Two  Years  Ago  ” by  a scene  which  happened  hut  a month 
since.  And  yet,  will  not  the  story  he  on  that  very  account  a 
better  type  of  many  a man’s  own  experiences  h How  few  of  us 
had  learnt  the  meaning  of  “ Two  years  ago,”  until  this  late  quiet 
autumn  time ; and  till  Christmas,  too,  with  its  gaps  in  the  old 
ring  of  friendly  faces,  never  to  he  filled  up  again  on  earth,  began 
to  teach  us  somewhat  of  its  lesson. 

Two  years  ago,  while  pestilence  was  hovering  over  us  and  ours ; 
while  the  battle-roar  was  ringing  in  our  ears  ; who  had  time  to 
think,  to  ask  what  all  that  meant ; to  seek  for  the  deep  lesson 
which  we  knew  must  lie  beneath  h Two  years  ago  was  the  time 
for  work;  for  men  to  do  with  all  their  might  whatsoever  their 
hands  found  to  do.  But  now,  the  storm  has  lulled  once  more  ; 
the  air  has  cleared  awhile,  and  we  can  talk  calmly  over  all  the 
wonders  of  that  sudden,  strange,  and  sad  “ Two  years  ago.” 

So  felt,  at  least,  two  friends  who  went  down,  just  one  week 
before  Christmas-day,  to  Whitbury,  in  Berkshire.  Two  years 
ago  had  come  to  one  of  them,  as  to  thousands  more,  the  crisis  of 
his  life  ; and  he  was  talking  of  it  with  his  companion  ; and  was 
on  his  way,  too,  to  learn  more  of  that  story,  which  this  hook 
contains,  and  in  which  he  had  borne  his  part. 

They  were  both  of  them  men  who  would  at  first  sight  interest 
a stranger.  The  shorter  of  the  two  he  might  have  seen  before — 
at  picture  sales,  Royal  Academy  meetings,  dinner  parties,  evening 
parties,  anywhere  and  everywhere  in  town ; for  Claude  Mellot 
is  a general  favourite,  and  a general  guest. 

He  is  a tiny,  delicate-featured  man,  with  a look  of  half-lazy 
enthusiasm  about  his  beautiful  face,  which  reminds  you  much  of 
Shelley’s  portrait ; only  he  has  what  Shelley  had  not,  clustering 
auburn  curls,  and  a rich  brown  heard,  soft  as  silk.  You  set  him 
down  at  once  as  a man  of  delicate  susceptibility,  sweetness, 
thoughtfulness  ; probably  (as  he  actually  is)  an  artist. 

* b 


ii 


INTRODUCTORY. 


His  companion  is  a man  of  statelier  stamp,  tall,  dark,  and 
handsome,  with  a very  large  forehead  : if  the  face  has  a fault,  it 
is  that  the  mouth  is  too  small ; that,  and  the  expression  of  face 
too,  and  the  tone  of  voice,  seem  to  indicate  over-refinement, 
possibly  a too  aristocratic  exclusiveness.  He  is  dressed  like  a 
very  fine  gentleman  indeed,  and  looks  and  talks  like  one.  Aris- 
tocrat, however,  in  the  common  sense  of  the  word,  he  is  not  i 
for  he  is  a native  of  the  Model  Kepublic,  and  sleeping-partner  in 
a great  Hew  York  merchant  firm. 

He  is  chatting  away  to  Claude  Mellot,  the  artist,  about  Fre- 
mont’s election ; and  on  that  point  seems  to  be  earnest  enough, 
though  patient  and  moderate. 

“ My  dear  Claude,  our  loss  is  gain.  The  delay  of  the  next  four 
years  was  really  necessary,  that  we  might  consolidate  our  party. 
And  I leave  you  to  judge,  if  it  has  grown  to  its  present  size  in 
but  a few  months,  what  dimensions  it  will  have  attained  before 
the  next  election.  We  require  the  delay,  too,  to  discover  who 
are  our  really  best  men ; not  merely  as  orators,  but  as  workers  ; 
and  you  English  ought  to  know,  better  than  any  nation,  that  the 
latter  class  of  men  are  those  whom  the  world  most  needs — that 
though  Aaron  may  be  an  altogether  inspired  preacher,  yet  it  is 
only  slow-tongued  practical  Moses,  whose  spokesman  he  is, 'who 
can  deliver  Israel  from  their  taskmasters.  Besides,  my  dear 
fellow,  we  really  want  the  next  four  years — ‘ tell  it  not  in  Gath’ 
— to  look  about  us,  and  see  what  is  to  be  done.  Your  wisest 
Englishmen  justly  complain  of  us,  that  our  ‘ platform  ’ is  as  yet 
a merely  negative  one ; that  we  define  what  the  South  shall  not 
do,  but  not  what  the  Horth  shall.  Ere  four  years  be  over,  we 
will  have  a ‘ positive  platform,’  at  which  you  shall  have  no  cause 
to  grumble.” 

“ I still  think  with  Marie,  that  your  ‘ positive  platform’  is 
already  made  for  you,  plain  as  the  sun  in  heaven,  as  the  light- 
nings of  Sinai.  Eree  those  slaves  at  once  and  utterly  ! ” 

“ Impatient  idealist  ! By  what  means  ? By  law,  or  by  force  ] 
Leave  us  to  draw  a cordon  sanitaire  round  the  tainted  states,  and 
leave  the  system  to  die  a natural  death,  as  it  rapidly  will  if  it  be 
prevented  from  enlarging  its  field.  Don’t  fancy  that  a dream  of 
mine.  Hone  know  it  better  than  the  Southerners  themselves. 
What  makes  them  ready  just  now  to  risk  honour,  justice,  even 
the  common  law  of  nations  and  humanity,  in  the  struggle  for 
new  slave  territory  ? What  but  the  consciousness  that  without 
virgin  soil,  which  will  yield  rapid  and  enormous  profit  to  slave 
labour,  they  and  their  institution  must  be  ruined  ! ” 

“ The  more  reason  for  accelerating  so  desirable  a consumma- 
tion, by  freeing  the  slaves  at  once.” 

“ Humph  ! ” said  Stangrave,  with  a smile.  “ Who  so  cruel  at 


INTRODUCTORY. 


Ill 


times  as  your  too-benevolent  philanthropist  ? Did  you  ever  count 
the  meaning  of  those  words  ? Disruption  of  the  Union,  an  inva- 
sion of  the  South  by  the  North ; and  an  internecine  war,  aggra- 
vated by  the  horrors  of  a general  rising  of  the  slaves,  and  such 
scenes  as  Hayti  beheld  sixty  years  ago.  If  you  have  ever  read 
them,  you  will  pause  ere  you  determine  to  repeat  them  on  a vaster 
scale.’ ’ 

“ It  is  dreadful,  Heaven  knows,  even  in  thought ! But,  Stan- 
grave,  can  any  moderation  on  your  part  ward  it  off?  Where 
there  is  crime,  there  ib  vengeance;  and  without  shedding  of  blood 
is  no  remission  of  jin.’'1 

“ God  knows  ! It  may  be  true  : but  God  forbid  that  I should 
ever  do  aught  to  hasten  what  may  come.  Oh  Claude,  do  you 
fancy  that  I,  of  all  men,  do  not  feel  at  moments  the  thirst  for 
brute  vengeance  ? ” 

Claude  was  silent. 

“ Judge  for  yourself,  you  who  know  all — what  man  among  us 
Northerners  can  feel,  as  I do,  what  those  hapless  men  may  have 
deserved  ? — I who  have  day  and  night  before  me  the  brand  of 
their  cruelty,  filling  my  heart  with  fire  ? I need  all  my  strength, 
all  my  reason,  at  times  to  say  to  myself,  as  I say  to  others — ‘ Are 
not  these  slaveholders  men  of  like  passions  with  yourself?  What 
have  they  done  which  you  would  not  have  done  in  their  place  ? ’ 
I have  never  read  that  Key  to  Uncle  Tom’s  Cabin.  I will  not 
even  read  this  Dred,  admirable  as  I believe  it  to  be.” 

“ Why  should  you  ?”  said  Claude.  “ Have  you  not  a key  to 
Uncle  Tom’s  Cabin,  more  pathetic  than  any  word  of  man’s  or 
woman’s  ? ” 

“ But  I do  not  mean  that ! I will  not  read  them,  because  I 
have  the  key  to  them  in  my  own  heart,  Claude  : because  con- 
science has  taught  me  to  feel  for  the  Southerner  as  a brother, 
who  is  but  what  I might  have  been ; and  to  sigh  over  his  mis- 
directed courage  and  energy,  not  with  hatred,  not  with  contempt : 
but  with  pity,  all  the  more  intense  the  more  he  scorns  that  pity ; 
to  long,  not  merely  for  the  slaves’  sake,  but  for  the  masters’  sake, 
to  see  them — the  once  chivalrous  gentlemen  of  the  South — 
delivered  from  the  meshes  of  a net  which  they  did  not  spread 
for  themselves,  but  which  was  round  their  feet,  and  round  their 
fathers’,  from  the  day  that  they  were  born.  You  ask  me  to  destroy 
these  men.  I long  to  save  them  from  their  certain  doom  ! ” 

“ You  are  right,  and  a better  Christian  than  I am,  I believe. 
Certainly  they  do  need  pity,  if  any  sinners  do ; for  slavery  seems 
to  be — to  judge  from  Mr.  Brooks’s  triumph — a great  moral  curse, 
and  a heavier  degradation  to  the  slaveholder  himself,  than  it  can 
ever  be  to  the  slave. 

“ Then  I would  free  them  from  that  curse,  that  degradation. 


IV 


INTRODUCTORY. 


If  the  negro  asks,  4 Am  I not  a man  and  a brother  ? ’ have  they 
no  right  to  ask  it  also  1 Shall  I,  pretending  to  love  my  country, 
venture  on  any  rash  step  which  may  shut  out  the  whole  Southern 
white  population  from  their  share  in  my  country’s  future  glory  ? 
No ; have  but  patience  with  us,  you  comfortable  liberals  of  the 
Old  World,  who  hnd  freedom  ready  made  to  your  hands,  and  we 
will  pay  you  all.  Remember,  we  are  but  children  yet ; our  sins 
are  the  sins  of  youth, — greediness,  intemperance,  petulance,  self- 
conceit.  When  we  are  purged  from  our  youthful  sins,  England 
will  not  be  ashamed  of  her  child.” 

“Ashamed  of  you?  I often  wish  I could  make  Americans 
understand  the  feeling  of  England  to  you — the  honest  pride,  as 
of  a mother  who  has  brought  into  the  world  the  biggest  baby 
that  ever  this  earth  beheld,  and  is  rather  proud  of  its  stamping 
about  and  beating  her  in  its  pretty  pets.  Only  the  old  lady 
does  get  a little  cross  when  she  hears  you  talk  of  the  wrongs 
which  you  have  endured  from  her,  and  teaching  your  children  to 
hate  us  as  their  ancient  oppressors,  on  the  ground  of  a foolish 
war,  of  which  every  Englishman  is  utterly  ashamed,  and  in  the 
tesult  of  which  he  glories  really  as  much  as  you  do.” 

44  Don’t  talk  of  4 you,’  Claude  ! You  know  well  what  I think 
on  that  point.  Never  did  one  nation  make  the  amende  honorable 
to  another  more  fully  and  nobly  than  you  have  to  us ; and  those 
who  try  to  keep  up  the  quarrel  are — I won’t  say  what.  Eut  the 
truth  is,  Claude,  we  have  had  no  real  sorrows ; and  therefore  we 
can  afford  to  play  with  imaginary  ones.  God  grant  that  we  may 
not  have  our  real  ones — that  we  may  not  have  to  drink  of  the 
cup  of  which  our  great  mother  drank  two  years  ago  ! ” 

44  It  was  a wholesome  bitter  for  us  ; and  it  may  be  so  for  you 
likewise  : but  we  will  have  no  sad  forebodings  on  the  eve  of  the 
blessed  Christmas-tide.  He  lives,  He  loves,  He  reigns  ; and  all 
is  well,  for  we  are  His,  and  He  is  ours.” 

44  Ah,”  said  Stangrave,  44  when  Emerson  sneered  at  you  English 
for  believing  your  Old  Testament,  he  little  thought  that  that  was 
the  lesson  which  it  had  taught  you ; and  that  that  same  lesson 
was  the  root  of  all  your  greatness.  That  that  belief  in  God’s 
being,  in  some  mysterious  way,  the  living  King  of  England  and 
of  Christendom,  has  been  the  very  idea  which  has  kept  you  in 
peace  and  safety,  now  for  many  a hundred  years,  moving  slowly 
on  from  good  to  better,  not  without  many  backslidings  and  many 
shortcomings,  but  still  finding  out,  quickly  enough,  when  you 
were  on  the  wrong  road,  and  not  ashamed  to  retrace  your  steps, 
and  to  reform , as  brave  strong  men  should  dare  to  do ; a people 
who  have  been  for  many  an  age  in  the  vanguard  of  all  the  nations, 
and  the  champions  of  sure  and  solid  progress  throughout  the 
world  ; because  what  is  new  among  you  is  not  patched  artificially 


INTRODUCTORY. 


V 


on  to  the  old,  but  grows  organically  out  of  it,  'with  a growth  like 
that  of  your  own  English  oak,  whose  every  new-year’s  leaf-crop 
is  fed  by  roots  which  burrow  deep  in  many  a buried  generation, 
and  the  rich  soil  of  full  a thousand  years.” 

“ Stay ! ” said  the  little  artist.  “ We  are  quite  conceited  enough 
already,  without  your  eloquent  adulation,  Sir  ! But  there  is  a 
truth  in  your  words.  There  is  a better  spirit  roused  among  us, 
and  that  not  merely  of  two  years  ago.  I knew  this  part  of  the 
country  well  in  1846-7-8,  and  since  then,  I can  hear  witness,  a 
spirit  of  self-reform  has  been  awakened  round  here,  in  many  a 
heart  which  I thought  once  utterly  frivolous.  I find,  in  every 
circle  of  every  class,  men  and  women  asking  to  he  taught  their 
duty,  that  they  may  go  and  do  it ; I find  everywhere  schools, 
libraries,  and  mechanics’  institutes  springing  up  : and  rich  and 
poor  meeting  together  more  and  more  in  the  faith  that  God  has 
made  them  all.  As  for  the  outward  and  material  improvements 
— you  know  as  well  as  I,  that  since  free  trade  and  emigration, 
the  labourers  confess  themselves  better  off  than  they  have  been 
for  fifty  years  ; and  though  }rou  will  not  see  in  the  chalk  counties 
that  rapid  and  enormous  agricultural  improvement  which  you  will 
in  Lincolnshire,  Yorkshire,  or  the  Lothians,  yet  you  shall  see 
enough  to-day  to  settle  for  you  the  question  whether  we  old- 
country  folk  are  in  a state  of  decadence  and  decay.  Pay 
exemple ” 

And  Claude  pointed  to  the  clean  large  fields,  with  their  neat 
elose-clipt  hedge-rows,  among  which  here  and  there  stood  cottages, 
more  than  three-fourths  of  them  new. 

“ Those  well-drained  fallow  fields,  ten  years  ago,  were  poor  clay 
pastures,  fetlock  deep  in  mire  six  months  in  the  year,  and  accursed 
in  the  eyes  of  my  poor  dear  old  friend,  Squire  Lavington;  because 
they  were  so  full  of  old  moles’-nests,  that  they  threw  all  horses 
down.  I am  no  farmer:  but  they  seem  surely  to  be  somewhat 
altered  since  then.” 

As  he  spoke,  they  turned  off  the  main  line  of  the  rolling  clays 
toward  the  foot  of  the  chalk  hills,  and  began  to  brush  through  short 
cuttings  of  blue  gault  and  “green  sand,”  so  called  by  geologists,  be- 
cause its  usual  colours  are  bright  browD,  snow-white,  and  crimson. 

Soon  they  get  glimpses  of  broad  silver  Whit,  as  she  slides, 
with  divided  streams,  through  bright  water-meadows,  and  stately 
groves  of  poplar,  and  abele,  and  pine ; while,  far  aloft  upon  the 
left,  the  downs  rise  steep,  crowned  with  black  fir  spinnies,  and 
dotted  with  dark  box  and  juniper. 

Soon  they  pass  old  Whitford  Priory,  with  its  numberless  gables, 
nestling  amid  mighty  elms,  and  the  f^unpool  flashing  and  roaring 
as  of  old,  and  the  broad  shallow  below  sparkling  and  laughing  in 
the  low,  but  bright  December  sun. 


VI 


INTRODUCTORY. 


“ So  slides  on  tlie  noble  river,  for  ever  changing,  and  yet  for 
ever  the  same — always  fulfilling  its  errand,  which  yet  is  never 
fulfilled,”  said  Stangrave, — he  was  given  to  half-mystic  utterances, 
and  hankerings  after  Pagan  mythology,  learnt  in  the  days  when 
he  worshipped  Emerson,  and  tried  (but  unsuccessfully)  to  worship 
Margaret  Puller  Ossoli, — “ Those  old  Greeks  had  a deep  insight 
into  nature,  when  they  gave  to  each  river  not  merely  a name,  but 
a semi-human  personality,  a river-god  of  its  own.  It  may  be  bu 
a collection  of  ever-changing  atoms  of  water  ; — what  is  your  body 
but  a similar  collection  of  atoms,  decaying  and  renewing  every 
moment  ? Yet  you  are  a person ; and  is  not  the  river,  too,  a 
person — a live  thing  ? It  has  an  individual  countenance  which 
you  love,  which  you  would  recognise  again,  meet  it  where  you 
will ; it  marks  the  whole  landscape ; it  determines  probably  the 
geography  and  the  society  of  a whole  district.  It  draws  you,  too, 
to  itself  by  an  indefinable  mesmeric  attraction.  If  you  stop  in  a 
strange  place,  the  first  instinct  of  your  idle  half-hour  is,  to  lounge 
by  the  river.  It  is  a person  to  you ; you  call  it — Scotchmen  do, 
at  least — she,  and  not  it.  How  do  you  know  that  you  are  not 
philosophically  correct,  and  that  the  river  has  a spirit  as  well  as 
you  ? ” 

“ Humph  ! ” said  Claude,  who  talks  mysticism  himself  by  the 
hour,  but  snubs  it  in  every  one  else.  “ It  has  trout,  at  least ; 
and  they  stand,  I suppose,  for  its  soul,  as  the  raisins  did  for  those 
of  Jean  Paul’s  gingerbread  bride  and  bridegroom  and  perad- 
venture  baby.” 

“ Oh  you  materialist  English  ! sporting-mad  all  of  you,  from 
the  duke  who  shooteth  stags  to  the  clod  who  poacheth  rabbits  ! ” 

“And  who  therefore  can  fight  Eussians  at  Inkermann,  duke 
and  clod  alike,  and  side  by  side ; never  better  (says  the  chronicler 
of  old)  than  in  their  first  battle.  I can  neither  fight  nor  fish,  and 
on  the  whole  agree  with  you : but  I think  it  proper  to  be  as 
English  as  I can  in  the  presence  of  an  American.” 

A whistle — a creak — a jar ; and  they  stop  at  the  little  Whit- 
ford  station,  where  a cicerone  for  the  vale,  far  better  than  Claude 
was,  made  his  appearance,  in  the  person  of  Mark  Armsworth, 
banker,  railway  director,  and  de  facto  king  of  Whitbury  town, 
long  since  elected  by  universal  suffrage  (his  own  vote  included) 
as  permanent  locum  tenens  of  her  gracious  Majesty. 

He  hails  Claude  cheerfully  from  the  platform,  as  he  waddles 
about,  with  a face  as  of  the  rising  sun,  radiant  with  good  fun, 
good  humour,  good  deeds,  good  news,  and  good  living.  His  coat 
was  scarlet  once  ; but  purple  now.  His  leathers  and  boots  were 
doubtless  clean  this  morning;  but  are  now  afflicted  with  elephan- 
tiasis, being  three  inches  deep  in  solid  mud,  which  his  old  groom 
is  scraping  off  as  fast  as  he  can.  His  cap  is  duntled  in  ; his  bacL 


INTRODUCTORY. 


Vll 


bears  fresh  stains  of  peat ; a gentle  rain  distils  from  the  few  angles 
of  his  person,  and  bedews  the  platform;  for  Mark  Armsworth 
has  “ been  in  Whit  ” to-day. 

All  porters  and  guards  touch  their  hats  to  him ; the  station- 
master  rushes  up  and  down  frantically,  shouting,  “ Where  are 
those  horse-boxes  ? Now  then,  look  alive  ! ” for  Mark  is  chairman 
of  the  line,  and  everybody’s  friend  beside  ; and  as  he  stands  there 
being  scraped,  he  finds  time  to  inquire  after  every  one  of  the 
officials  by  turns,  and  after  their  wives,  children,  and  sweethearts 
beside. 

“ What  a fine  specimen  of  your  English  squire ! ” says  Stangrave. 

“ He  is  no  squire ; he  is  the  Whitbury  banker,  of  whom  I told 
you.” 

“ Armsworth  ! ” said  Stangrave,  looking  at  the  old  man  with 
interest. 

“ Mark  Armsworth  himself.  He  is  acting  as  squire,  though, 
now ; for  he  has  hunted  the  Whitford  Priors  ever  since  poor  old 
Lavington’s  death.” 

“ Now  then — those  horse-boxes  ! ” . . . 

“ Very  sorry,  Sir ; I telegraphed  up,  but  we  could  get  but  one 
down.” 

“ Put  the  horses  into  that,  then ; and  there’s  an  empty  carriage ! 
Jack,  put  the  hounds  into  it,  and  they  shall  all  go  second  class, 
as  sure  as  I’m  chairman  ! ” 

The  grinning  porters  hand  the  strange  passengers  in,  while 
Mark  counts  the  couples  with  his  whip-point, — 

“ Eavager — Roysterer;  Melody — Gay-lass;  all  right.  Why, 
where’s  that  old  thief  of  a Goodman  ? ” 

“ Went  over  a gate  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  couples ; and  wouldn’t 
come  in  at  any  price,  Sir,”  says  the  huntsman.  “ Gone  home  by 
himself,  I expect.” 

4 4 Goodman,  Goodman,  boy  ! ” And  forthwith  out  of  the 
station-room  slips  the  noble  old  hound,  grey-nosed,  grey-eye- 
browed, who  has  hidden,  for  purposes  of  his  own,  till  he  sees  all 
the  rest  safe  locked  in. 

Up  he  goes  to  Mark,  and  begins  wriggling  against  his  knees, 
and  looking  up  as  only  dogs  can.  “ Oh,  want  to  go  first-class 
with  me,  eh  h Jump  in,  then  ! ” And  in  jumps  the  hound,  and 
Mark  struggles  after  him. 

“ Ilillo,  Sir  ! Come  out  ! Here  ar<a  your  betters  here  before 
you,”  as  he  sees  Stangrave,  and  a fat  old  lady  in  the  opposite  corner. 

“ Oh,  no ; let  the  dog  stay  ! ” says  Stangrave. 

“ I shall  wet  you,  Sir,  I’m  afraid.” 

“ Oh,  no.” 

And  Mark  settles  himself,  puffing,  with  the  hound’s  head  on 
his  knees,  and  begins  talking  fast  and  loud. 


Vlll 


INTRODUCTORY. 


“ Well,  Mr.  Mellot,  you’re  a stranger  here.  Haven’t  seen  you 
since  poor  Miss  Honour  died.  Ah,  sweet  angel  she  was ! Thought 
my  Mary  would  never  get  over  it.  She’s  j ust  such  another,  though 
I say  it,  barring  the  beauty.  Goodman,  hoy  ! You  recollect  old 
Goodman,  son  of  Galloper,  that  the  old  squire  gave  our  old 
squire  V’ 

Claude,  of  course,  knows — as  all  do  who  know  those  parts — 
who  The  Old  Squire  is ; long  may  he  live,  patriarch  of  the  chase ! 
The  genealogy  he  does  not. 

“ Ah,  well — Miss  Honour  took  to  the  pup,  and  used  to  walk 
him  out ; and  a prince  of  a hound  he  is ; so  now  he’s  old  we  let 
him  have  his  own  way,  for  her  sake ; and  nobody  ’ll  ever  bully 
you,  will  they,  Goodman,  my  boy  h ” 

“ I want  to  introduce  you  to  a friend  of  mine.” 

“ Proud  to  know  any  friend  of  yours,  Sir.” 

“Mr.  Stangrave — Mr.  Armsworth.  Mr.  Stangrave  is  an 
American  gentleman,  who  is  anxious  to  see  Whitbury  and  the 
neighbourhood.  ” 

“ Well,  I shall  be  happy  to  show  it  him,  then — can’t  have  a 
better  guide,  though  I say  it — know  everything  by  this  time, 
and  everybody,  man,  woman,  and  child,  as  I hope  Mr.  Stan- 
grave ’ll  find  when  he  gets  to  know  old  Mark.” 

“You  must  not  speak  of  getting  to  know  you,  my  dear  Sir  ; I 
know  you  intimately  already,  I assure  you ; and  more,  am  under 
very  deep  obligations  to  you,  which,  I regret  to  say,  I can  only 
repay  by  thanks.” 

“ Obligation  to  me,  my  dear  Sir  ? ” 

“ Indeed  I am  : I will  tell  you  all  when  we  are  alone.”  And 
Stangrave  glanced  at  the  fat  old  woman,  who  seemed  to  be 
listening  intently. 

“ Oh,  never  mind  her,”  says  Armsworth ; “ deaf  as  a post : 
very  good  woman,  but  so  deaf — ought  to  speak  to  her,  though  ” 
— and,  reaching  across,  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  his  com- 
panions, he  roared  in  the  fat  woman’s  face,  with  a voice  as  of  a 
speaking-trumpet — “ Glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Grove  ! Got  those 
dividends  ready  for  you  next  time  you  come  into  town.” 

“Yah  ! ” screamed  the  hapless  woman,  who  (as  the  rest  saw) 
heard  perfectly  well.  “ Wha,t  do  you  mean,  frightening  a lady 
in  that  way  ? Deaf,  indeed  ! ” 

“ Why,”  roared  Mark  again,  “ ain’t  you  Mrs.  Grove,  of  Dry- 
town  Dirtywater  h ” 

“Ho,  nor  no  acquaintance!  What  business  is  it  of  your’n, 
Sir,  to  go  hollering  in  ladies’  faces  at  your  age  ? ” 

“Well : — but  I’ll  swear  if  you  ain’t  her,  you’re  somebody  else, 
i know  you  as  well  as  the  town  clock.” 

“ Me  ] If  you  must  know,  Sir,  I’m  Mrs.  Pettigrew’s  mother, 


INTRODUCTORY. 


IX 


the  Linendraper’s  establishment,  Sir;  a-going  down  for  Christmas, 
Sir  ! ” 

“ Humph  ! ” says  Mark ; “ you  see — was  sure  I knew  her — 
know  everybody  here.  As  I said,  if  she  wasn’t  Mrs.  Grove,  she 
was  somebody  else.  Ever  in  these  parts  before  ? ” 

“ Never  : but  I have  heard  a good  deal  of  them ; and  very 
much  charmed  with  them  I am.  I have  seldom  seen  a more 
distinctive  specimen  of  English  scenery.” 

“ And  how  you  are  improving  round  here  ! ” said  Claude,  who 
knew  Mark’s  weak  points,  and  wanted  to  draw  him  out.  “ Your 
homesteads  seem  all  new ; three  fields  have  been  thrown  into 
one,  I fancy,  over  half  the  farms.” 

Mark  broke  out  at  once  on  his  favourite  topic, — “ I believo 
you  ! I’m  making  the  mare  go  here  in  Whitford,  without  the 
money  too,  sometimes.  I’m  steward  now,  bailiff — lia ! ha  ! these 
four  years  past — to  Mrs.  Lavington’s  Irish  husband;  I wanted 
him  to  have  a regular  agent,  a canny  Scot,  or  Yorkshireman. 
Eaith,  the  poor  man  couldn’t  afford  it,  and  so  fell  back  on  old 
Mark.  Paddy  loves  a job,  you  know.  So  I’ve  the  votes  and 
the  fishing,  and  send  him  his  rents,  and  manage  all  the  rest 
pretty  much  my  own  way.” 

When  the  name  of  Lavington  was  mentioned,  Mark  observed 
Stangrave  start ; and  an  expression  passed  over  his  face  difficult 
to  be  defined — it  seemed  to  Mark  mingled  pride  and  shame. 
He  turned  to  Claude,  and  said,  in  a low  voice,  but  loud  enough 
for  Mark  to  hear, — 

u Lavington  % Is  this  their  country  also  ? As  I am  going  to 
visit  the  graves  of  my  ancestors,  I suppose  I ought  to  visit  those 
of  hers.” 

Mark  caught  the  words  which  he  was  not  intended  to. 

“ Eh  % Sir,  do  you  belong  to  these  parts  ? ” 

“ My  family,  I believe,  lived  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Whit- 
bury,  at  a place  called  Stangrave-end.” 

‘ ‘To  be  sure  ! Old  farm-house  now  ; fine  old  oak  carving  in 
it,  though ; fine  old  family  it  must  have  been ; church  full  of 
their  monuments.  Hum, — ha  ! Well ! that’s  pleasant,  now  ! 
I’ve  often  heard  there  were  good  old  families  away  there  in  New 
England ; never  thought  that  there  were  Whitbury  people  among 
them.  Hum — well ! the  world’s  not  so  big  as  people  think, 
after  all.  And  you  spoke  of  the  Lavingtons  ? They  are  great 
folks  here — or  were  ” — He  was  going  to  rattle  on  : but  he  saw 
a pained  expression  on  both  the  travellers’  faces,  and  Stangrave 
stopped  him,  somewhat  drily — 

“ I know  nothing  of  them,  I assure  you,  or  they  of  me.  Your 
country  here  is  certainly  charming,  and  shows  little  of  those 
signs  of  decay  which  some  people  in  America  impute  to  it.” 


X 


INTRODUCTORY. 


“Decay!”  Mark  went  off  at  score.  “Decay  be  banged  i 
There’s  life  in  the  old  dog  yet,  Sir  ! and  dead  pigs  are  looking 
up  since  free  trade  and  emigration.  Cheap  bread  and  high 
wages  now  ; and  instead  of  lands  going  out  of  cultivation,  as 
they  threatened — bosh  ! there’s  a greater  breadth  down  in  wheat 
in  the  vale  now  than  there  ever  was ; and  look  at  the  roots. 
Farmers  must  farm  now,  or  sink ; and,  by  George ! they  are 
farming,  like  sensible  fellows ; and  a fig  for  that  old  turnip 
ghost  of  Protection  ! There  was  a fellow  came  down  from  the 
Carlton — you  know  what  that  is?”  Stangrave  bowed,  and  smiled 
assent.  “ Prom  the  Carlton,  Sir,  two  years  since,  and  tried  it 
on,  till  he  fell  in  with  old  Mark.  I told  him  a thing  or  two  ; 
among  the  rest,  told  him  to  his  face  that  he  was  a liar ; for  he 
wanted  to  make  farmers  believe  they  were  ruined,  when  he 
knew  they  were  not;  and  that  he’d  get  ’em  back  Protection, 
when  he  knew  that  he  couldn’t — and,  what’s  more,  he  didn’t 
mean  to.  So  he  cut  up  rough,  and  wanted  to  call  me 
out.” 

“Did  you  go ? ” asked  Stangrave,  who  was  fast  becoming 
amused  with  his  man. 

“ I told  him  that  that  wasn’t  my  line,  unless  he’d  try  Eley’s 
greens  at  forty  yards  ; and  then  I was  his  man  : but  if  he  laid 
a finger  on  me,  I’d  give  him  as  sound  a horsewhipping,  old  as  I 
am,  as  ever  man  had  in  his  life.  And  so  I would.”  And  Mark 
looked  complacently  at  his  own  broad  shoulders.  “ And  since 
then,  my  lord  and  I have  had  it  all  our  own  way ; and  Min- 
champstead  & Co.  is  the  only  firm  in  the  vale.” 

“ What’s  become  of  a Lord  Yieuxbois,  who  used  to  live  some- 
where hereabouts  ? I used  to  meet  him  at  Kome.” 

“Pome?”  said  Mark  solemnly.  “ Yes;  he  was  too  fond  of 
Kome,  awhile  back : can’t  see  what  people  want  running  into 
foreign  parts  to  look  at  those  poor  idolators,  and  their  Punch 
and  Judy  plays.  Pray  for  ’em,  and  keep  clear  of  them,  is  the 
best  rule  : — but  he  has  married  my  lord’s  youngest  daughter ; 
and  three  pretty  children  he  has, — ducks  of  children.  Always 
comes  to  see  me  in  my  shop,  when  he  drives  into  town.  Oh  ! — 
he’s  doing  pretty  well. — One  of  these  new  between-the-stools, 
Peelites  they  call  them — hope  they’ll  be  as  good  as  the  name. 
However,  he’s  a free-trader,  because  he  can’t  help  it.  So  wo 
have  his  votes;  and  as  to  his  Conservatism,  let  him  conserve 
hips  and  haws  if  he  chooses,  like  a ’pothecary.  After  all,  why 
pull  down  anything,  before  it’s  tumbling  on  your  head  ? By 
the  bye,  Sir,  as  you’re  a man  of  money,  there’s  that  Stangrave- 
end  farm  in  the  market  now.  Pretty  little  investment, — I’d 
see  that  you  got  it  cheap ; and  my  lord  wouldn’t  bid  against 
you,  of  course,  as  you’re  a liberal — all  Americans  are,  I suppose 


introductory. 


XI 


And  so  you’d  oblige  us,  as  well  as  yourself,  for  it  would  give  us 
another  vote  for  the  county.” 

44  Upon  my  word,  you  tempt  me ; hut  I do  not  think  that 
this  is  just  the  moment  for  an  American  to  desert  his  own 
country,  and  settle  in  England.  *1  should  not  he  here  now,  had 
I not  this  autumn  done  all  I could  for  America  in  America,  and 
so  crossed  the  sea  to  serve  her,  if  possible,  in  England.” 

“ Well,  perhaps  not;  especially  if  you’re  a Eremonter.” 

“ I am,  I assure  you.” 

“ Thought  as  much,  by  your  looks.  Don’t  see  what  else  an 
honest  man  can  be  just  now.” 

Stangrave  laughed.  44I  hope  every  one  thinks  so  in  England.” 
44  Trust  us  for  that,  Sir  ! We  know  a man  when  we  see  him 
here ; I hope  they’ll  do  the  same  across  the  water.” 

There  was  silence  for  a minute  or  two ; and  then  Mark  began 
again. 

“ Look  ! — there’s  the  farm ; that’s  my  lord’s.  I should  like 
to  show  you  the  short-horns  there,  Sir ! — all  my  Lord  Ducie’s 
and  Sir  Edward  Knightley’s  stock ; bought  a bull-calf  of  him 
the  other  day  myself  for  a cool  hundred,  old  fool  that  I am. 
Never  mind,  spreads  the  breed.  And  here  are  mills — four  pair 
of  new  stones.  Old  Whit  don’t  know  herself  again.  But  I 
dare  say  they  look  small  enough  to  you,  Sir,  after  your  American 
water-power.” 

“ What  of  that  ? It  is  just  as  honourable  in  you  to  make  the 
most  of  a small  river,  as  in  us  to  make  the  most  of  a large 
one.” 

“ You  speak  like  a book,  Sir.  By  the  bye,  if  you  think  of 
taking  home  a calf  or  two,  to  improve  your  New  England  breed 
— there  are  a good  many  gone  across  the  sea  in  the  last  few 
years — I think  we  could  find  you  three  or  four  beauties,  not  so 
very  dear,  considering  the  blood.” 

“ Thanks  ; but  I really  am  no  farmer.” 

“ Well — no  offence,  I hope  : but  I am  like  your  Yankees  in 
one  thing,  you  see ; — always  have  an  eye  to  a bit  of  business. 
If  I didn’t,  I shouldn’t  be  here  now.” 

“ How  very  tasteful ! — our  own  American  shrubs  ! what  a 
pity  that  they  are  not  in  flower  ! What  is  this,”  asked  Stan- 
grave, — 4 4 one  of  your  noblemen’s  parks  ” 

And  they  began  to  run  through  the  cutting  in  Minchamgstead 
Park,  where  the  owner  has  concealed  the  banks  of  the  rail  for 
nearly  half  a mile,  in  a thicket  of  azaleas,  rhododendrons,  and 
clambering  roses. 

44  Ah  ! — isn’t  it  pretty  ? His  lordship  let  us  have  the  land 
for  a song ; only  bargained  that  we  should  keep  low,  not  to  spoil 
hia  view ; and  so  we  did ; and  he’s  planted  our  cutting  for  us. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


sdi 

I call  that  a present  to  the  county,  and  a very  pretty  one  too ! 
All,  give  me  these  new  brooms  that  sweep  clean  ? ” 

“ Your  old  brooms,  like  Lord  Vieuxbois,  were  new  brooms 
once,  and  swept  well  enough  five  hundred  years  ago,”  said  Stan- 
grave,  who  had  that  filial  reverence  for  English  antiquity  which 
sits  so  gracefully  upon  many  highly  educated  and  far-sighted 
Americans. 

“ Worn  to  the  stumps,  now,  too  many  of  them,  Sir;  and  want 
new-hething,  as  our  broom-squires  would  say ; and  I doubt 
whether  most  of  them  are  worth  the  cost  of  a fresh  bind.  Not 
that  I can  say  that  of  the  young  lord.  He’s  foremost  in  all  that’s 
good,  if  he  had  but  money ; and  when  he  hasn’t,  he  gives  brains. 
Gave  a lecture,  in  our  institute  at  Whitford,  last  winter,  on  the 
four  great  Poets.  Shot  over  my  head  a little,  and  other  people’s 
too  : but  my  Mary — my  daughter,  Sir,  thought  it  beautiful ; 
and  there’s  nothing  that  she  don’t  know.” 

“It  is  very  hopeful,  to  see  your  aristocracy  joining  in  the 
general  movement,  and  bringing  their  taste  and  knowledge  to 
bear  on  the  lower  classes.” 

“Yes,  Sir  ! We’re  going  all  right  now,  in  the  old  country. 
Only  have  to  steer  straight,  and  not  put  on  too  much  steam. 
But  give  me  the  new-comers,  after  all.  They  may  be  close  men 
of  business  ; — how  else  could  one  live  ? But  when  it  comes  to 
giving,  I’ll  back  them  against  the  old  ones  for  generosity,  or  taste 
either.  They’ve  their  proper  pride,  when  they  get  hold  of  the 
land  ; and  they  like  to  show  it,  and  quite  right  they.  You  must 
see  my  little  place  too.  It’s  not  in  such  bad  order,  though  I 
say  it,  and  am  but  a country  banker  : but  I’ll  back  my  flowers 
against  half  the  squires  round — my  Mary’s,  that  is — and  my  fruit, 
too. — See,  there  ! There’s  my  lord’s  new  schools,  and  his  model 
cottages,  with  more  comforts  in  them,  saving  the  size,  than  my 
father’s  house  had;  and  there’s  his  barrack,  as  he  calls  it,  for  the 
unmarried  men — reading-room,  and  dining-room,  in  common ; 
and  a library  of  books,  and  a sleeping-room  for  each.” 

“ It  seems  strange  to  complain  of  prosperity,”  said  Stangrave ; 
“ but  I sometimes  regret  that  in  America  there  is  so  little  room 
for  the  very  highest  virtues ; all  are  so  well  off,  that  one  never 
needs  to  give ; and  what  a man  does  here  for  others,  they  do  for 
themselves.” 

“ So  much  the  better  for  them.  There  are  other  ways  of 
being  generous  besides  putting  your  hand  in  your  pocket,  Sir ! 
By  Jove  ! there’ll  be  room  enough  (if  you’ll  excuse  me)  for  an 

American  to  do  fine  things,  as  long  as  those  poor  negro  slaves ” 

“ I know  it ; I know  it,”  said  Stangrave,  in  the  tone  of  a man 
who  had  already  made  up  his  mind  on  a painful  subject,  and 
wished  to  hear  no  more  of  it.  “ You  will  excuse  me ; but  I am 


INTRODUCTORY.  xiii 

come  here  to  learn  what  I can  of  England.  Of  my  own  country 
I know  enough,  I trust,  to  do  my  duty  in  it  when  I return.” 
Mark  was  silent,  seeing  that  he  had  touched  a tender  place ; 
and  pointed  out  one  object  of  interest  after  another,  as  they 
ran  through  the  flat  park,  past  the  great  house  with  its  Doric 
facade,  which  the  eighteenth  century  had  raised  above  the  quiet 
cell  of  the  Minchampstead  recluses. 

“ Et  is  very  ugly,”  said  Stangrave  ; and  truly. 

“ Comfortable  enough,  though ; and,  as  somebody  said,  people 
live  inside  their  houses,  and  not  outside  ’em.  You  should  see 
the  pictures  there,  though,  while  you’re  in  the  country.  I can 
show  you  one  or  two,  too,  I hope.  Never  grudge  money  for 
good  pictures.  The  pleasantest  furniture  in  the  world,  as  long 
as  you  keep  them ; and  if  you’re  tired  of  them,  always  fetch 
double  their  price.” 

After  Minchampstead,  the  rail  leaves  the  sands  and  clays,  and 
turns  up  between  the  chalk  hills,  along  the  barge  river,  which 
it  has  rendered  useless,  save  as  a supernumerary  trout-stream; 
and  then  along  Whit,  now  flowing  clearer  and  clearer,  as  we 
approach  its  springs  amid  the  lofty  downs.  On  through  more 
water-meadows,  and  rows  of  pollard  willow,  and  peat-pits  crested 
with  tall  golden  reeds,  and  still  dykes, — each  in  summer  a 
floating  flower-bed ; while  Stangrave  looks  out  of  the  window, 
his  face  lighting  up  with  curiosity. 

“How  perfectly  English  ! At  least,  howr  perfectly  un-American  ! 
It  is  just  Tennyson’s  beautiful  dream — 

1 On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 

Which  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky, 

And  through  the  field  the  stream  runs  by, 

To  many- towered  Cameled.’ 

“Why,  what  is  tins'?”  as  they  stop  again  at  a station,  where 
the  board  bears,  in  large  letters,  “ Shalott.” 

“ Shalott  ? Where  are  the 

‘ Four  grey  walls,  and  four  grey  towers,’ 

which  overlook  a space  of  flowers  '?” 

There,  upon  the  little  island,  are  the  castle-ruins,  now  con- 
verted into  a useful  bone-mill.  “ And  the  lady  1 — is  that  she  *?” 
It  was  only  the  miller’s  daughter,  fresh  from  a boarding-school, 
gardening  in  a broad  straw-hat. 

“ At  least,”  said  Claude,  “ she  is  tending  far  prettier  flowers 
than  ever  the  lady  saw ; while  the  lady  herself,  instead  of  weaving 
and  dreaming,  is  reading  Miss  Young’s  novels,  and  becoming  all 
the  wiser  thereby,  and  teaching  poor  children  in  Hemmelford 
National  School.” 


XIV 


INTRODUCTORY. 


“ And  where  is  her  fairy  knight,”  asked  Stangrave,  “ whom 
one  half  hopes  to  see  riding  down  from  that  grand  old  house 
which  sulks  there  above  among  the  beech-woods,  as  if  frowning- 
on  all  the  change  and  civilisation  below1?” 

“ Yon  do  old  Sidricstone  injustice.  Vieuxbois  descends  from 
thence,  now-a-days,  to  lecture  at  mechanics’  institutes,  instead  of 
the  fairy  knight,  toiling  along  in  the  blazing  summer  weather, 
sweating  in  burning  metal,  like  poor  Perillus  in  his  own  bull.” 

“ Then  the  fairy  knight  is  extinct  in  England  ? ” asked  Stan- 
grave, smiling. 

“ No  man  less ; only  he  (not  Yieuxbois,  but  his  younger 
brother)  has  found  a wide-awake  cooler  than  an  iron  kettle,  and 
travels  by  rail  when  he  is  at  home ; and  when  he  was  in  the 
Crimea,  rode  a shaggy  pony,  and  smoked  cavendish  all  through 
the  battle  of  Inkermann.” 

“ He  showed  himself  the  old  Sir  Lancelot  there,”  said  Stan- 
grave. 

“ He  did.  Wherefore  the  lady  married  him  when  the  Guards 
came  home  ; and  he  will  breed  prize  pigs  ; and  sit  at  the  board 
of  guardians  ; and  take  in  The  Times  ; clothed,  and  in  his  right 
mind ; for  the  old  Berserk  spirit  is  gone  out  of  him  ; and  he  is 
become  respectable,  in  a respectable  age,  and  is  nevertheless  just 
as  brave  a fellow  as  ever.” 

“ And  so  all  things  are  changed,  except  the  river;  where 
still — 

‘ Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 

Little  breezes  dash  and  shiver 
On  the  stream  that  runneth  ever.’” 

“ And,”  said  Claude,  smiling,  “ the  descendants  of  mediaeval 
trout  snap  at  the  descendants  of  mediaeval  flies,  spinning  about 
upon  just  the  same  sized  and  coloured  wings  on  which  their  fore- 
fathers spun  a thousand  years  ago ; having  become,  in  all  that 
while,  neither  bigger  nor  wiser.” 

“But  is  it  not  a grand  thought,”  asked  Stangrave, — “the 
silence  and  permanence  of  nature  amid  the  perpetual  flux  and 
noise  of  human  life  *? — a grand  thought  that  one  generation  goeth, 
and  another  cometh,  and  the  earth  abideth  for  ever  V’ 

“ At  least  it  is  so  much  the  worse  for  the  poor  old  earth,  if 
her  doom  is  to  stand  still,  while  man  improves  and  progresses 
from  age  to  age.” 

“ May  I ask  one  question,  Sir  ? ” said  Stangrave,  who  saw  that 
£heir  conversation  was  puzzling  their  jolly  companion.  “ Have 
you  heard  any  news  yet  of  Mr.  Thurnall  1 ” 

Mark  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

“ Do  you  know  him  h ” 

“ I did,  in  past  years,  most  intimately.’' 


INTRODUCTORY. 


XV 


“Then  you  knew  the  finest  fellow,  Sir,  that  ever  walked 
mortal  earth.’7 

“ I have  discovered  that,  Sir,  as  well  as  you.  I am  under 
obligations  to  that  man  which  my  heart’s  blood  will  not  repay. 
I shall  make  no  secret  of  telling  you  what  they  are  at  a fit 
time.77 

Mark  held  out  his  broad  red  hand,  and  grasped  Stangrave’s  till 
the  joints  cracked  : his  face  grew  as  red  as  a turkey-cock’s ; his 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

“ His  father  must  hear  that ! Hang  it ; his  father  must  hear 
that ! And  Grace  too  ! 77 

“ Grace  ! 77  said  Claude  : “ and  is  she  with  you  ? 77 

“With  the  old  man,  the  angel ! tending  him  night  and  day.1 ” 

“ And  as  beautiful  as  ever  h 77 

“ Sir  ! 77  said  Mark  solemnly,  “ when  any  one’s  soul  is  as  beau- 
tiful as  hers  is,  one  never  thinks  about  her  face.77 

“ Who  is  Grace  h 77  asked  Stangrave. 

“ A saint  and  a heroine  ! 77  said  Claude.  “You  shall  know 
all ; for  you  ought  to  know.  Eut  you  have  no  news  of  Tom  ; 
and  I have  none  either.  I am  losing  all  hope  now.77 

“ I7m  not,  Sir  ! 77  said  Mark  fiercely.  “ Sir,  that  boy’s  not 
dead ; he  can’t  be.  He  has  more  lives  than  a cat,  and  if  you 
know  anything  of  him,  you  ought  to  know  that.77 

“ I have  good  reason  to  know  it,  none  more  : but — 77 

“ Eut,  Sir  ! Eut  what  ? Harm  come  to  him,  Sir  1 The  Lord 
wouldn’t  harm  him,  for  his  father’s  sake ; and  as  for  the  devil ! 
— I tell  you,  Sir,  if  he  tried  to  fly  away  with  him,  he’d  have  to 
drop  him  before  he’d  gone  a mile  ! 77  And  Mark  began  blowing 
his  nose  violently,  and  getting  so  red  that  he  seemed  on  the  point 
of  going  into  a fit. 

“ Tell  you  what  it  is,  gentlemen,”  said  he  at  last,  “ you  come 
and  stay  with  me,  and  see  his  father.  It  will  comfort  the  old 
man — and — and  comfort  me  too  ; for  I get  down-hearted  about 
him  at  times.” 

“ Strange  attraction  there  was  about  that  man,”  says  Stangrave, 
sotto  voce , to  Claude. 

“ He  was  like  a son  to  him — 77 

“ How,  gentlemen.  Mr.  Mellot,  you  don’t  hunt  ? 77 

“ Ho,  thank  you,”  said  Claude. 

“ Mr.  Stangrave  does,  I’ll  warrant.” 

“ I have  at  various  times,  both  in  England  and  in  Virginia.77 

“ Ah  ! Do  they  keep  up  the  real  sport  there,  eh  ? Well,  that’s 
the  best  thing  I’ve  heard  bf  them.  Sir  ! — My  horses  are  yours  1 
— A friend  of  that  boy,  Sir,  is  welcome  to  lame  the  whole  lot* 
and  I won’t  grumble.  Three  days  a week,  Sir,  Ereakfast  at 
eight,  dinner  at  5.30 — none  of  your  late  London  hours  for  me, 


xvi 


INTRODUCTORY. 


Sir ; and  after  it  the  best  bottle  of  port,  though  I say  it,  short  of 

my  friend  S ’s,  at  Heading.” 

“You  must  accept,”  whispered  Claude,  “ or  he  will  he  angry.” 
So  Stangrave  accepted ; and  all  the  more  readily  because  he 
wanted  to  hear  from  the  good  hanker  many  things  about  the  lost 
Tom  Thurnall. 

***** 

“ Here  we  are,”  cries  Mark.  “ How,  you  must  excuse  me  : 
see  to  yourselves.  1 see  to  the  puppies.  Dinner  at  5.30,  mind  ! 
Come  along,  Goodman,  boy  ! ” 

“ Is  this  Whitbury,”  asks  Stangrave. 

It  was  Whitbury,  indeed.  Pleasant  old  town,  which  slopes 
down  the  hill-side  to  the  old  church, — just  “ restored,”  though, 
by  Lords  Minchampstead  and  Vieuxbois,  not  without  Mark 
Armsworth’s  help,  to  its  ancient  beauty  of  grey  flint  and  white 
clunch  chequer- work,  and  quaint  wooden  spire.  Pleasant  church- 
yard round  it,  where  the  dead  lie  looking  up  to  the  bright 
southern  sun,  among  huge  black  yews,  upon  their  knoll  of  white 
chalk  above  the  ancient  stream.  Pleasant  white  wooden  bridge, 
with  its  row  of  urchins  dropping  flints  upon  the  noses  of  elephan- 
tine trout,  or  fishing  over  the  rail  with  crooked  pins,  while 
hapless  gudgeon  come  dangling  upward  between  stream  and  sky, 
with  a look  of  sheepish  surprise  and  shame,  as  of  a schoolboy 
caught  stealing  apples,  in  their  foolish  visages.  Pleasant  new 
national  schools  at  the  bridge  end,  whither  the  urchins  scamper 
at  the  sound  of  the  two  o’clock  bell.  Though  it  be  an  ugly  pile 
enough  of  bright  red  brick,  it  is  doing  its  work,  as  Whitbury  folk 
know  well  by  now.  Pleasant,  too,  though  still  more  ugly,  those 
long  red  arms  of  new  houses  which  Whitbury  is  stretching  out 
along  its  fine  turnpikes, — especially  up  to  the  railway  station 
beyond  the  bridge,  and  to  the  smart  new  hotel,  which  hopes  (but 
hopes  in  vain)  to  outrival  the  ancient  “Angler’s  Eest.”  Away 
thither,  and  not  to  the  Hail  way  Hotel,  they  trundle  in  a fly — 
leaving  Mark  Armsworth  all  but  angry  because  they  will  not 
sleep,  as  well  as  breakfast,  lunch,  and  dine  with  him  daily, — and 
settle  in  the  good  old  inn,  with  its  three  white  gables  overhanging 
the  pavement,  and  its  long  lattice  window  buried  deep  beneath 
them,  like — so  Stangrave  says — to  a shrewd  kindly  eye  under  a 
bland  white  forehead. 

Ho,  good  old  inn ; not  such  shall  be  thy  fate,  as  long  as  trout 
are  trout,  and  men  have  wit  to  catch  them.  Por  art  thou  not  a 
sacred  house  ? Art  thou  not  consecrate  to  the  Whitbury  brother- 
hood of  anglers  ? Is  not  the  wainscot  of  that  long  low  parlour 
inscribed  with  many  a famous  name  ? Are  not  its  walls  hung 
with  many  a famous  countenance?  Has  not  its  oak-ribbed 
ceiling  rung,  for  now  a hundred  years,  to  the  laughter  of  painters. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


XVII 


sculptors,  grave  divines  (unbending  at  least  there),  great  lawyers, 
statesmen,  wits,  even  of  Foote  and  Quin  themselves ; while  the 
sleek  landlord  wiped  the  cobwebs  off  another  magnum  of  that 
grand  old  port,  and  took  in  all  the  wisdom  with  a quiet  twinkle 
of  his  sleepy  eye  ? He  rests  now,  good  old  man,  among  the  yews 
beside  his  forefathers ; and  on  his  tomb  his  lengthy  epitaph,  writ 
by  himself ; for  Barker  was  a poet  in  his  way. 

Some  people  hold  the  same  epitaph  to  be  irreverent,  because  in 
a list  of  Barker’s  many  blessings  occurs  the  profane  word  “ trout 
but  those  trout,  and  the  custom  which  they  brought  him,  had 
made  the  old  man’s  life  comfortable,  and  enabled  him  to  leave  a 
competence  for  his  children  ; and  why  should  not  a man  honestly 
thank  Heaven  for  that  which  he  knows  has  done  him  good,  even 
though  it  be  but  fish  ? 

He  is  gone  : but  the  Whit  is  not,  nor  the  Whitbury  club  ; nor 
will,  while  old  Mark  Arms  worth  is  king  in  Whitbury,  and  sits 
every  evening  in  the  May-fly  season  at  the  table  head,  retailing 
good  stories  of  the  great  anglers  of  his  youth, — names  which  you, 
reader,  have  heard  many  a time, — and  who  could  do  many  things 
besides  handling  a blow-line.  Eut  though  the  club  is  not  what 
it  was  fifty  years  ago, — before  Norway  and  Scotland  became  easy 
of  access, — yet  it  is  still  an  important  institution  of  the  town,  to 
the  members  whereof  all  good  subjects  touch  their  hats  ; for  does 
not  the  club  bring  into  the  town  good  money,  and  take  out  again 
only  fish,  which  cost  nothing  in  the  breeding  h Did  not  the  club 
present  the  Town-hall  with  a portrait  of  the  renowned  fishing 
Sculptor  ? and  did  it  not  (only  stipulating  that  the  school  should 
be  built  beyond  the  bridge  to  avoid  noise)  give  fifty  pounds  to 
the  said  school  but  five  years  ago,  in  addition  to  Mark’s  own 
hundred  1 

Eut  enough  of  this  : — only  may  the  Whitbury  club,  in  recom- 
pense for  my  thus  handing  them  down  to  immortality,  give  me 
another  day  next  year,  as  they  gave  me  this  : and  may  the  May- 
fly be  strong  on,  and  a south-west  gale  blowing ! 

In  the  course  of  the  next  week,  in  many  a conversation,  the 
three  men  compared  notes  as  to  the  events  of  two  years  ago  ; 
and  each  supplied  the  other  with  new  facts,  which  shall  be 
duly  set  forth  in  this  tale,  saving  and  excepting,  of  course,  the 
real  reason  why  everybody  did  everything.  For — as  everybody 
knows  who  has  watched  life — the  true  springs  of  all  human 
action  are  generally  those  which  fools  will  not  see,  which  wise 
men  will  not  mention ; so  that,  in  order  to  present  a readable 
tragedy  of  Hamlet,  you  must  always  “ omit  the  part  of  Hamlet,” 
— and  probably  the  ghost  and  the  queen  into  the  bargain. 


c 


18 


CHAPTER  I. 

POETRY  AND  PROSE. 

Now,  to  tell  my  story — if  not  as  it  ought  to  he  told,  at  least 
as  I can  tell  it, — I must  go  back  sixteen  years, — to  the  days 
when  Whitbury  boasted  of  forty  coaches  per  diem,  instead  of 
one  railway, — and  set  forth  how,  in  its  southern  suburb,  there 
stood  two  pleasant  houses  side  by  side,  with  their  gardens  sloping 
down  to  the  Whit,  and  parted  from  each  other  only  by  the  high 
brick  fruit-wall,  through  which  there  used  to  be  a door  of  com- 
munication ; for  the  two  occupiers  were  fast  friends.  In  one  of 
these  two  houses,  sixteen  years  ago,  lived  our  friend  Mark  Arms- 
worth,  banker,  solicitor,  land-agent,  churchwarden,  guardian  of 
the  poor,  justice  of  the  peace, — in  a word,  viceroy  of  Whitbury 
town,  and  far  more  potent  therein  than  her  gracious  majesty 
Queen  Victoria.  In  the  other,  lived  Edward  Thurnall,  esquire, 
doctor  of  medicine,  and  consulting  physician  of  all  the  country 
round.  These  two  men  were  as  brothers ; and  had  been  as 
brothers  for  now  twenty  years,  though  no  two  men  could  be 
more  different,  save  in  the  two  common  virtues  which  bound 
them  to  each  other ; and  that  was,  that  they  both  were  honest 
and  kind-hearted  men.  What  Mark’s  character  was,  and  is,  I 
have  already  shown,  and  enough  of  it,  I hope,  to  make  my 
readers  like  the  good  old  banker  : as  for  Doctor  Thurnall,  a 
purer  or  gentler  soul  never  entered  a sick-room,  with  patient 
wisdom  in  his  brain,  and  patient  tenderness  in  his  heart.  Be- 
loved and  trusted  by  rich  and  poor,  he  had  made  to  himself  a 
practice  large  enough  to  enable  him  to  settle  two  sons  well  in  his 
own  profession ; the  third  and  youngest  was  still  in  Whitbury. 
He  was  something  of  a geologist,  too,  and  a botanist,  and  an 
antiquarian ; and  Mark  Armsworth,  who  knew,  and  knows  still, 
nothing  of  science,  looked  up  to  the  Doctor  as  an  inspired  sage, 
quoted  him,  defended  his  opinion,  right  or  wrong,  and  thrust  him 
forward  at  public  meetings,  and  in  all  places  and  seasons,  much 
to  the  modest  Doctor’s  discomfiture. 

The  good  Doctor  was  sitting  in  his  study  on  the  morning  on 
which  my  tale  begins ; having  just  finished  his  breakfast,  and 
settled  to  his  microscope  in  the  bay-window  opening  on  the 
lawn. 

A beautiful  October  morning  it  was ; one  of  those  in  which 
Dame  Nature,  healthily  tired  with  the  revelry  of  summer,  is 
composing  herself,  with  a quiet  satisfied  smile,  for  her  winter’s 
sleep.  Sheets  of  dappled  cloud  were  sliding  slowly  from  the 
west ; long  bars  of  hazy  blue  hung  over  the  southern  chalk 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


ID 

downs  which  gleamed  pearly  grey  beneath  the  low  south-eastern 
sun.  In  the  vale  below,  soft  white  flakes  of  mist  still  hung  over 
the  water  meadows,  and  barred  the  dark  trunks  of  the  huge  elms 
and  poplars,  whose  fast-yellowing  leaves  came  showering  down 
at  the  very  rustle  of  the  western  breeze,  spotting  the  grass  below. 
The  river  swirled  along,  glassy  no  more,  but  dingy  grey  with 
autumn  rains  and  rotting  leaves.  All  beyond  the  garden  told 
of  autumn  ; bright  and  peaceful,  even  in  decay : but  up  the 
sunny  slope  of  the  garden  itself,  and  to  the  very  window  sill, 
summer  still  lingered.  The  beds  of  red  verbena  and  geranium 
were  still  brilliant,  though  choked  with  fallen  leaves  of  acacia 
and  plane ; the  canary  plant,  still  untouched  by  frost,  twined  its 
delicate  green  leaves,  and  more  delicate  yellow  blossoms,  through 
the  crimson  lacework  of  the  Virginia-creeper ; and  the  great 
yellow  noisette  swung  its  long  canes  across  the  window,  filling 
all  the  air  with  fruity  fragrance. 

And  the  good  Doctor,  lifting  his  eyes  from  his  microscope, 
looked  out  upon  it  all  with  a quiet  satisfaction,  and  though  his 
lips  did  not  move,  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  thanking  God  for  it  all ; 
and  thanking  Him,  too,  perhaps,  that  he  was  still  permitted  to 
gaze  upon  that  fair  world  outside.  Tor  as  he  gazed,  he  started,  as 
if  with  sudden  pain,  and  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  with  some 
thing  like  a sigh,  and  then  looked  at  the  microscope  no  more,  but 
sat,  seemingly  absorbed  in  thought,  while  upon  his  delicate  toil- 
worn  features,  and  high,  bland,  unwrinkled  forehead,  and  the  few 
soft  grey  locks  which  not  time — for  he  was  scarcely  fifty-five — but 
long  labour  of  brain,  had  spared  to  him,  there  lay  a hopeful  calm, 
as  of  a man  who  had  nigh  done  his  work,  and  felt  that  he  had  not 
altogether  done  it  ill ; — an  autumnal  calm,  resigned,  yet  full  of 
cheerfulness,  which  harmonized  fitly  with  the  quiet  beauty  of  the 
decaying  landscape  before  him. 

“ I say,  Daddy,  you  must  drop  that  microscope,  and  put  on  your 
shade.  You  are  ruining  those  dear  old  eyes  of  yours  again,  in 
spite  of  what  Alexander  told  you.” 

The  Doctor  took  up  the  green  shade  which  lay  beside  him,  and 
replaced  it  with  a sigh  and  a smile. 

“ I must  use  the  old  things  now  and  then,  till  you  can  take  my 
place  at  the  microscope,  Tom;  or  till  we  have,  as  we  ougnt  to 
have,  a- first-rate  analytical  chemist  settled  in  every  county- to  wnv 
and  paid,  in  part  at  least,  out  of  the  county  rates.” 

The  “ Tom”  who  had  spoken  was  one  of  two  youths  of  eighteen, 
who  stood  in  opposite  corners  of  the  bay-window,  gazing  out  upon 
the  landscape,  but  evidently  with  thoughts  as  different  as  were 
their  complexions. 

Tom  was  of  that  bull-terrier  type  so  common  in  England ; 
sturdy,  and  yet  not  coarse;  middle-sized,  deep-chested,  broad- 

c 2 


20 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


shouldered ; with  small,  well-knit  hands  and  feet,  large  jaw, 
bright  grey  eyes,  crisp  brown  hair,  a heavy  projecting  brow ; his 
face  full  of  shrewdness  and  good-nature,  and  of  humour  withal, 
which  might  be  at  whiles  a little  saucy  and  sarcastic,  to  judge  from 
the  glances  which  he  sent  forth  from  the  corners  of  his  wicked 
eyes  at  his  companion  on  the  other  side  of  the  window.  He  was 
evidently  prepared  for  a day’s  shooting,  in  velveteen  jacket  and 
leather  gaiters,  and  stood  feeling  about  in  his  pockets  to  see 
whether  he  had  forgotten  any  of  his  tackle,  and  muttering  to  him- 
self  amid  his  whistling, — “ Capital  day.  How  the  birds  will  lie. 
Where  on  earth  is  old  Mark  h Why  must  he  wait  to  smoke  his 
cigar  after  breakfast  ? Couldn’t  he  have  had  it  in  the  trap,  the 
blessed  old  chimney  that  he  is  ? ” 

The  other  lad  was  somewhat  taller  than  Tom,  awkwardly  and 
plainly  dressed,  but  with  a highly-developed  Byronic  turn-down 
collar,  and  long  black  curling  locks.  He  was  certainly  handsome, 
as  far  as  the  form  of  his  features  and  brow  ; and  would  have  been 
very  handsome,  but  for  the  bad  complexion  which  at  his  age  so 
often  accompanies  a sedentary  life,  and  a melancholic  temper. 
One  glance  at  his  face  was  sufficient  to  tell  that  he  was  moody, 
shy,  restless,  perhaps  discontented,  perhaps  ambitious  and  vain. 
He  held  in  his  hand  a volume  of  Percy’s  Beliques,  which  he  had 
just  taken  down  from  Thurnall’s  shelves ; yet  he  was  looking  not 
at  it,  but  at  the  landscape.  Nevertheless,  as  he  looked,  one  might 
have  seen  that  he  was  thinking  not  so  much  of  it  as  of  his  own 
thoughts  about  it.  His  eye,  which  was  very  large,  dark,  and 
beautiful,  with  heavy  lids  and  long  lashes,  had  that  dreamy  look 
so  common  among  men  of  the  poetic  temperament ; conscious  of 
thought,  if  not  conscious  of  self ; and  as  his  face  kindled,  and  his 
lips  moved  more  and  more  earnestly,  he  began  muttering  to  him- 
self half-aloud,  till  Tom  Thurnall  burst  into  an  open  laugh. 

“ There’s  Jack  at  it  again  ! making  poetry,  I’ll  bet  my  head  to 
a China  orange.” 

“ And  why  not  ? ” said  his  father,  looking  up  quietly,  but  re- 
provingly, as  Jack  winced  and  blushed,  and  a dark  shade  of 
impatience  passed  across  his  face. 

“ Oh  ! it’s  no  concern  of  mine.  Let  everybody  please  them- 
selves. The  country  looks  very  pretty,  no  doubt,  I can  tell  that ; 
only  my  notion  is,  that  a wise  man  ought  to  go  out  and  enjoy  it 
— as  I am  going  to  do — with  a gun  on  his  shoulder,  instead  of 
poking  at  home  like  a yard-dog,  and  behowling  oneself  in  po-o- 
oetry and  Tom  lifted  up  his  voice  into  a doleful  mastiff’s  howl. 

“ Then  be  as  good  as  your  word,  Tom,  and  let  every  one  please 
themselves,”  said  the  Doctor ; but  the  dark  youth  broke  out  in 
sudden  passion. 

“ Mr.  Thomas  Thurnall ! I will  not  endure  this  ! Why  are 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


21 


you  always  making  me  yonr  butt, — insulting  me,  Sir,  even  in  your 
father’s  house  h You  do  not  understand  me ; and  I do  not  care 
to  understand  you.  If  my  presence  is  disagreeable  to  you,  I cap 
easily  relieve  you  of  it ! ” and  the  dark  youth  turned  to  go  away 
like  Haaman,  in  a rage. 

“ Stop,  John,”  said  the  Doctor.  44  I think  it  would  be  the 
more  courteous  plan  for  Tom  to  relieve  you  of  his  presence.  G-o 
and  find  Mark,  Tom  ; and  please  to  remember  that  John  Briggs 
is  my  guest,  and  that  I will  not  allow  any  rudeness  to  him  in  my 
house.” 

44  I’ll  go,  Daddy,  to  the  world’s  end,  if  you  like,  provided  you 
won’t  ask  me  to  write  poetry.  But  Jack  takes  offence  so  soon. 
Give  us  your  hand,  old  tinder-box  ! I meant  no  harm,  and  you 
know  it.” 

John  Briggs  took  the  proffered  hand  sulkily  enough ; and  Tom 
went  out  of  the  glass  door,  whistling  as  merry  as  a cricket. 

44  My  dear  boy,”  said  the  Doctor,  when  they  were  alone,  44  you 
must  try  to  curb  this  temper  of  yours.  Don’t  be  angry  with  me, 
but — ” 

44  I should  be  an  ungrateful  brute  if  I was,  Sir.  I can  bear  any- 
thing from  you.  I ought  to,  for  I owe  everything  to  you ; but — ” . 

4 4 But,  my  dear  boy — 4 better  is  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit,  than 
he  that  taketh  a city.’  ” 

John  Briggs  tapped  his  foot  on  the  ground  impatiently.  44 1 
cannot  help  it,  Sir.  It  will  drive  me  mad,  I think  at  times, — 
this  contrast  between  what  I might  be,  and  what  I am.  I can 
bear  it  no  longer — mixing  medicines  here,  when  I might  be 
educating  myself,  distinguishing  myself — for  I can  do  it ; have 
you  not  said  as  much  yourself  to  me  again  and  again  h ” 

44 1 have,  of  course ; but — ” 

44  But,  Sir,  only  hear  me.  It  is  in  vain  to  ask  me  to  command 
my  temper  while  I stay  here.  I am  not  fit  for  this  work ; not  fit 
for  the  dull  country.  I am  not  appreciated,  not  understood  ; and 
I shall  never  be,  till  I can  get  to  London, — till  I can  find  con- 
genial spirits,  and  take  my  rightful  place  in  the  great  parliament 
of  mind.  I am  Pegasus  in  harness,  here  ! ” cried  the  vain,  dis- 
contented youth.  44  Let  me  but  once  get  there, — amid  art,  civi- 
lization, intellect,  and  the  company  of  men  like  that  old  Mermaid 
Club,  to  hear  and  to  answer — 

‘ words, 

So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 

As  one  bad  put  his  whole  soul  in  a jest ; ’ — 

and  then  you  shall  see  whether  Pegasus  has  not  wings,  and  can 
use  them  too ! ” And  he  stopped  suddenly,  choking  with  emotion, 
his  nostril  and  chest  dilating,  his  foot  stamping  impatiently  on 
the  ground. 


22 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


The  Doctor  watched  him  with  a sad  smile. 

“ Do  you  remember  the  devil’s  temptation  of  our  Lord — ‘ Cast 
thyself  down  from  hence ; for,  it  is  written,  He  shall  give  his 
angels  charge  over  thee  % ’ ” 

“ I do  ; but  what  has  that  to  do  with  me  t ” 

“ Throw  away  the  safe  station  in  which  God  has  certainly  put 
you,  to  seek,  by  some  desperate  venture,  a new,  and,  as  you  fancy, 
a grander  one  for  yourself  ? Look  out  of  that  window,  lad ; is 
there  not  poetry  enough,  beauty  and  glory  enough,  in  that  sky, 
those  fields,— ay,  in  every  fallen  leaf, — to  employ  all  your  powers, 
considerable  as  I believe  them  to  be?  Why  spurn  the  pure, 
quiet,  country  life,  in  which  such  men  as  Wordsworth  have  been 
content  to  live  and  grow  old  ? ” 

The  boy  shook  his  head  like  an  impatient  horse.  “ Too  slow 
—too  slow  for  me,  to  wait  and  wait,  as  Wordsworth  did,  through 
long  years  of  obscurity,  misconception,  ridicule.  Ho.  What  I 
have,  I must  have  at  once ; and,  if  it  must  be,  die  like  Chatterton 
— if  only,  like  Chatterton,  I can  have  my  little  day  of  success, 
and  make  the  world  confess  that  another  priest  of  the  beautiful 
has  arisen  among  men.” 

How,  it  can  scarcely  be  denied,  that  the  good  Doctor  was  guilty 
of  a certain  amount  of  weakness  in  listening  patiently  to  all  this 
‘ rant.  Hot  that  the  rant  was  very  blameable  in  a lad  of  eighteen  ; 
for  have  we  not  all,  while  we  are  going  through  our  course  of 
Shelley,  talked  very  much  the  same  abominable  stuff,  and  thought 
ourselves  the  grandest  fellows  upon  earth  on  account  of  that  very 
length  of  ear  which  was  patent  to  all  the  world  save  our  precious 
selves  ; blinded  by  our  self-conceit,  and  wondering  in  wrath  why 
•everybody  was  laughing  at  us  ? But  the  truth  is,  the  Doctor  was 
easy  and  indulgent  to  a fault,  and  dreaded  nothing  so  much,  save 
telling  a lie,  as  hurting  people’s  feelings  j beside,  as  the  acknow- 
ledged wise  man  of  Whitbury,  he  was  a little  proud  of  playing 
the  Maecenas  ; and  he  had,  and  not  unjustly,  a high  opinion  of 
John  Briggs’  powers.  So  he  had  lent  him  books,  corrected  his 
taste  in  many  matters,  and,  by  dint  of  petting  and  humouring, 
had  kept  the  wayward  youth  half-a-dozen  times  from  running 
away  from  his  father,  who  was  an  apothecary  in  the  town,  and 
from  the  general  practitioner,  Mr.  Bolus,  under  whom  John  Briggs 
fulfilled  the  office  of  co-assistant  with  Tom  Thurnall.  Plenty  of 
trouble  had  both  the  lads  given  the  Doctor  in  the  last  five  years, 
but  of  very  different  kinds.  Tom,  though  he  was  in  everlasting 
hot  water,  as  the  most  incorrigible  scapegrace  for  ten  miles  round, 
contrived  to  confine  his  naughtiness  strictly  to  play-hours,  while 
he  learnt  everything  which  was  to  be  learnt  with  marvellous 
quickness,  and  so  utterly  fulfilled  the  ideal  of  a bottle-boy  (for  of 
him,  too,  as  of  all  things,  I presume,  an  ideal  exists  eternally  in 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


23 


the  supra-sensual  Platonic  universe),  that  Bolus  told  his  father, — 
“ In  hours,  sir,  he  takes  care  of  my  business  as  well  as  I could 
myself  ; but  out  of  hours,  sir,  I believe  ho  is  possessed  by  seven 
devils.” 

John  Briggs,  on  the  other  hand,  sinned  in  the  very  opposite 
direction.  Too  proud  to  learn  his  business,  and  too  proud  also 
to  play  the  scapegrace  as  Tom  did,  he  neglected  alike  work  and 
amusement,  for  lazy  mooning  over  books,  and  the  dreams  which 
books  called  up.  He  made  perpetual  mistakes  in  the  shop ; and 
then  considered  himself  insulted  by  an  “ inferior  spirit,”  if  poor 
Bolus  called  him  to  account  for  it.  Indeed,  had  it  not  been  for 
many  applications  of  that  “ precious  oil  of  unity,”  with  which  the 
good  Doctor  daily  anointed  the  creaking  wheels  of  Whitbury 
society,  John  Briggs  and  his  master  would  have  long  ago  “ broken 
out  of  gear,”  and  parted  company  in  mutual  wrath  and  fury. 
And  now,  indeed,  the  critical  moment  seemed  come  at  last ; for 
the  lad  began  afresh  to  declare  his  deliberate  intention  of  going 
to  London  to  seek  his  fortune,  in  spite  of  parents  and  all  the 
world. 

“ To  live  on  here,  and  never  to  rise,  perhaps,  above  the  post 
of  correspondent  to  a country  newspaper  ! — To  publish  a volume 
of  poems  by  subscription  and  have  to  go  round,  hat  in  hand, 
begging  five  shillings’  worth  of  patronage  from  every  stupid 
country  squire — intolerable  ! I must  go  ! Shakspeare  was  never 
Shakspeare  till  he  fled  from  miserable  Stratford,  to  become  at 
once  the  friend  of  Sidney  and  Southampton.” 

“ But  John  Briggs  will  be  John  Briggs  still,  if  he  went  to  the 
moon,”  shouted  Tom  Thurnall,  who  had  just  come  up  to  the. 
window.  “ I advise  you  to  change  that  name  of  yours,  Jack,  to 
Sidney,  or  Percy,  or  Walker  if  you  like ; anything  but  the  illus- 
trious surname  of  Briggs  the  poisoner  ! ” 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Sir?”  thundered  John,  while  the  Doctor 
himself  jumped  up  ; for  Tom  was  red  with  rage. 

“ What  is  this,  Tom  ? ” 

“ What’s  that  ? ” screamed  Tom,  bursting,  in  spite  of  his  pas- 
sion, into  roars  of  laughter.  “ What’s  that  ? ” — and  he  held  out 
a phial.  “ Smell  it ! taste  it ! Oh,  if  I had  but  a gallon  of  it 
to  pour  down  your  throat ! That’s  what  you  brought  Mark 
Armsworth  last  night,  instead  of  his  cough  mixture,  while  your 
brains  were  wool-gathering  after  poetry  ! ” 

“ What  is  it  ? ” gasped  John  Briggs. 

“ Miss  Twiddle’s  black  dose ; — strong  enough  to  rive  the  giz- 
zard out  of  an  old  cock  ! ” 

“ It’s  not ! ” 

“It  is  ! ” roared  Mark  Armsworth  from  behind,  as  he  rushed 
in,  in  shooting-jacket  and  gaiters,  his  red  face  redder  with  fury, 


24 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


his  red  whiskers  standing  on  end  with  wrath  like  a tiger’s,  hi. 
left  hand  npon  his  hapless  hypogastric  region,  his  right  brandish- 
ing an  empty  glass,  which  smelt  strongly  of  brandy  and  water. 
“ It  is  ! And  you’ve  given  me  the  cholera,  and  spoilt  my  day’s 
shooting  : and  if  I don’t  servo  you  out  for  it  there’s  no  law  in 
England  !” 

“ And  spoilt  my  day’s  shooting,  too ; the  last  I shall  get  before 
I’m  off  to  Paris  ! To  have  a day  in  Lord  Minchampstead’s  pre- 
serves, and  to  be  baulked  of  it  in  this  way  ! ” 

John  Briggs  stood  as  one  astonied. 

44  If  I don’t  serve  you  out  for  this  ! ” shouted  Mark. 

“ If  I don’t  serve  you  out  for  it ! You  shall  never  hear  the 
last  of  it ! ” shouted  Tom.  “ I’ll  take  to  writing,  after  all.  I’ll 
put  it  in  the  papers.  I’ll  make  the  name  of  Briggs  the  poisoner 
an  abomination  in  the  land.” 

John  Briggs  turned  and  fled. 

“ Well !”  said  Mark,  “I  must  spend  my  morning  at  home,  I 
suppose.  So  I shall  just  sit  and  chat  with  you,  Doctor.” 

“ And  I shall  go  and  play  with  Molly,”  said  Tom,  and  walked 
off  to  Armsworth’s  garden. 

“I  don’t  care  for  myself  so  much,”  said  Mark;  44 but  I’m 
sorry  the  boy’s  lost  his  last  day’s  shooting.” 

“ Oh,  you  will  be  well  enough  by  noon,  and  can  go  then ; 
and  as  for  the  boy,  it  is  just  as  well  for  him  not  to  grow  too 
fond  of  sports  in  which  he  can  never  indulge.” 

“ Never  indulge  h Why  not  ? He  vows  he’ll  go  to  the  Bocky 
Mountains,  and  shoot  a grizzly  bear ; and  he’ll  do  it.” 

44  He  has  a great  deal  to  do  before  that,  poor  fellow ; and  a 
great  deal  to  learn.” 

“ And  he’ll  learn  it.  You’re  always  down-hearted  about  the 
boy,  Doctor.” 

41 1 1 can’t  help  feeling  the  parting  with  him ; and  for  Paris, 
too  : — such  a seat  of  temptation.  But  it  is  his  own  choice  ; 
and,  after  all,  he  must  see  temptation,  wherever  he  goes.” 

44  Bless  the  man  ! if  a boy  means  to  go  to  the  bad,  he’ll  go 
just  as  easily  in  Whitbury  as  in  Paris.  Give  the  lad  his  head, 
and  never  fear ; he’ll  fall  on  his  legs  like  a cat,  I’ll  warrant  him, 
whatever  happens.  He’s  as  steady  as  old  Time,  I tell  you  ; 
there’s  a grey  head  on  green  shoulders  there.” 

44  Steady  h ” said  the  Doctor,  with  a smile  and  a shrug. 

44  Steady,  I tell  you  at  heart ; as  prudent  as  you  or  I ; and 
never  lost  you  a farthing,  that  you  know.  Kang  good  boys  ! 
give  me  one  who  knows  how  to  be  naughty  in  the  right  place  ; 
I wouldn’t  give  sixpence  for  a good  boy : I never  was  one  myself, 
and  have  no  faith  in  them.  Give  me  the  lad  who  has  more  steam 
up  than  he  knows  what  to  do  with,  and  must  needs  blow  off  a 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


¥ 


25 


little  in  larks.  When  once  lie  settles  down  on  the  rail,  it’ll  send 
him  along  as  steady  as  a luggage-train.  Did  you  never  hear  a 
locomotive  puffing  and  roaring  before  it  gets  under  way  ? well, 
that’s  what  your  boy  is  doing.  Look  at  him  now,  with  my  pool 
little  Molly.” 

Tom  was  cantering  about  the  garden  with  a little  weakly  child 
of  eight  in  his  arms.  The  little  thing  was  looking  up  in  his  face 
with  delight,  screaming  at  his  jokes. 

“ You  are  right,  Mark  : the  boy’s  heart  cannot  be  in  the  wrong 
place  while  he  is  so  fond  of  little  children.” 

“ Poor  Molly  ! How  she’ll  miss  him  ! Do  you  think  she’ll 
ever  walk,  Doctor1?” 

“ I do  indeed.” 

“ Hum ! ah ! well ! if  she  grows  up,  Doctor,  and  don’t  go  to 
join  her  poor  dear  mother  up  there,  I don’t  know  that  I’d  wish 
her  a better  husband  than  your  boy.” 

“ It  would  be  a poor  enough  match  for  her.” 

“ Tut ! she’ll  have  the  money,  and  he  the  brains.  Mark  my 
words,  Doctor,  that  boy’ll  be  a credit  to  you ; he’ll  make  a noise 
in  the  world,  or  I know  nothing.  And  if  his  fancy  holds  seven 
years  hence,  and  he  wants  still  to  turn  traveller,  let  him.  If 
he’s  minded  to  go  round  the  world,  I’ll  back  him  to  go,  somehow 
or  other,  or  I’ll  eat  my  head,  Ned  Thurnall ! ” 

The  Doctor  acquiesced  in  this  hopeful  theory,  partly  to  save 
an  argument ; for  Mark’s  reverence  for  his  opinion  was  confined 
to  scientific  matters  ; and  he  made  up  to  his  own  self-respect  by 
patronising  the  Doctor,  and,  indeed,  taking  him  sometimes  pretty 
sharply  to  task  on  practical  matters. 

“Best  fellow  alive  is  Thurnall;  but  not  a man  of  business, 
poor  fellow.  None  of  your  geniuses  are.  Don’t  know  what 
he’d  do  without  me.” 

So  Tom  carried  Mary  about  all  the  morning,  and  went  to 
Minchampstead  in  the  afternoon,  and  got  three  hours’  good 
shooting ; but  in  the  evening  he  vanished ; and  his  father  went 
into  Armsworth’s  to  look  for  him. 

“ Why  do  you  want  to  know  where  he  is  1 ” replied  Mark, 
looking  sly.  “ However,  as  you  can’t  stop  him  now,  I’ll  tell 
you.  He  is  just  about  this  time  sewing  up  Briggs’  coat-sleeves, 
putting  copperas  into  his  water  jug,  and  powdered  galls  on  his 
towel,  and  making  various  other  little  returns  for  this  morning’s 
favour.” 

“ I dislike  practical  jokes.” 

“ So  do  I ; especially  when  they  come  in  the  form  of  a 
black  dose.  Sit  down,  old  boy,  and  we’ll  have  a game  at 
cribbage.” 

“In  a few  minutes  Tom  came  in — “ Here’s  a good  riddance  l 


26 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


The  poisoner  has  fabricated  his  pilgrim’s  staff,  to  speak  scien 
tifically,  and  perambulated  his  calcareous  strata.” 

“What!” 

“ Cut  his  stick,  and  walked  his  chalks  ; and  is  off  to  London.” 

“ Poor  boy,”  said  the  Doctor,  much  distressed. 

“ Don’t  cry,  Daddy ; you  can’t  bring  him  back  again.  He’s 
been  gone  these  four  hours.  I went  to  his  room,  at  Bolus’s, 
jabout  a little  business,  and  saw  at  once  that  he  had  packed  up, 
and  carried  off  all  he  could.  And,  looking  about,  I found  a 
letter  directed  to  his  father.  So  to  his  father  I took  it ; and 
really  I was  sorry  for  the  poor  people.  I left  them  all  crying  in 
chorus.” 

“ I must  go  to  them  at  once ; ” and  up  rose  the  Doctor. 

“He’s  not  worth  the  trouble  you  take  for  him — the  addle- 
headed, ill-tempered  coxcomb,”  said  Mark.  “But  it’s  just  like 
your  soft-heartedness.  Tom,  sit  down,  and  finish  the  game  with 
me. 

So  vanished  from  Whitbury,  with  all  his  aspirations,  poor 
John  Briggs  ; and  save  an  occasional  letter  to  his  parents,  telling 
them  that  he  was  alive  and  well,  no  one  heard  anything  of  him 
for  many  a year.  The  Doctor  tried  to  find  him  out  in  London, 
again  and  again ; but  without  success.  His  letters  had  no  address 
upon  them,  and  no  clue  to  his  whereabouts  could  be  found. 

And  Tom  Thurnall  went  to  Paris,  and  became  the  best  pistol- 
shot  and  billiard-player  in  the  Quartier  Latin ; and  then  went 
to  St.  Mumpsimus’s  Hospital  in  London,  and  became  the  best 
boxer  therein,  and  captain  of  the  eight-oar,  besides  winning 
prizes  and  certificates  without  end,  and  becoming  in  due  time  the 
most  popular  house-surgeon  in  the  hospital : but  nothing  could 
keep  him  permanently  at  home.  Stay  drudging  in  London  he 
would  not.  Settle  down  in  a country  practice  he  would  not. 
Cost  his  father  a farthing  he  would  not.  So  he  started  forth 
into  the  wide  world  with  nothing  but  his  wits  and  his  science,  as 
anatomical  professor  to  a new  college  in  some  South  American 
republic.  Unfortunately,  when  he  got  there,  he  found  that  the 
annual  revolution  had  just  taken  place,  and  that  the  party  who 
had  founded  the  college  had  been  all  shot  the  week  before. 
Whereat  he  whistled,  and  started  off  again,  no  man  knew  whither. 

“ Having  got  round  half  the  world,  Daddy,”  he  wrote  home, 
“it’s  hard  if  I don’t  get  round  the  other  half.  So  don’t  expect 
me  till  you#see  me ; and  take  care  of  your  dear  old  eyes,” 

With  which  he  vanished  into  infinite  space,  and  was  only 
heard  of  by  occasional  letters  dated  from  the  Eocky  Mountains 
(where  he  did  shoot  a grizzly  bear),  the  Spanish  West  Indies, 
Otahiti,  Singapore,  the  Falkland  Islands,  and  all  manner  of 
unexpected  places ; sending  home  valuable  notes  (soifietim.es 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


27 


accompanied  by  valuable  specimens),  zoological  and  botanical ; 
and  informing  bis  father  that  he  was  doing  very  well ; that  work 
was  plentiful,  and  that  he  always  found  two  fresh  jobs  before  he 
had  finished  one  old  one. 

His  eldest  brother,  John,  died  meanwhile.  His  second  brother, 
William,  was  in  good  general  practice  in  Manchester.  His 
father’s  connexions  supported  him  comfortably ; and  if  the  old 
Doctor  ever  longed  for  Tom  to  come  home,  he  never  hinted  it  to 
the  wanderer,  but  bade  him  go  on  and  prosper,  and  become 
(which  he  gave  high  promise  of  becoming)  a distinguished  man 
of  science.  Nevertheless  the  old  man’s  heart  sunk  at  last,  when 
month  after  month,  and  at  last  two  full  years,  had  passed  without 
any  letter  from  Tom. 

At  last,  when  full  four  years  were  passed  and  gone  since  Tom 
started  for  South  America,  he  descended  from  the  box  of  the  day- 
mail,  with  a serene  and  healthful  countenance ; and  with  no 
more  look  of  interest  in  his  face  than  if  he  had  been  away  on  a 
two  days’  visit,  shouldered  his  carpet-bag,  and  started  for  his 
father’s  house.  He  stopped,  however;  as  there  appeared  from 
the  inside  of  the  mail  a face  which  he  must  surely  know.  A 
second  look  told  him  that  it  was  none  other  than  John  Briggs. 
But  how  altered  ! He  had  grown  up  into  a very  handsome  man, 
— tall  and  delicate -featured,  with  long  black  curls,  and  a black 
moustache.  There  was  a slight  stoop  about  his  shoulders,  as  of 
a man  accustomed  to  too  much  sitting  and  writing ; and  he 
carried  an  eye-glass,  whether  for  fashion’s  sake,  or  for  his  eyes* 
sake,  was  uncertain.  He  was  wrapt  in  a long  Spanish  cloak, 
new  and  good ; wore  well-cut  trowsers,  and  (what  Tom,  of  course, 
examined  carefully)  French  boots,  very  neat,  and  very  thin. 
Moreover,  he  had  lavender  kid-gloves  on.  Tom  looked  and 
wondered,  and  walked  half  round  him,  sniffing  like  a dog  when 
he  examines  into  the  character  of  a fellow  dog. 

“ Hum  ! — his  mark  seems  to  be  at  present  P.  P. — prosperous 
party  : so  there  can  be  no  harm  in  renewing  our  acquaintance. 
What  trade  on  earth  does  he  live  by,  though?  Editor  of  a 
newspaper  ? or  keeper  of  a gambling-table  % Begging  his  pardon, 
he  looks  a good  deal  more  like  the  latter  than  the  former. 
However — ” 

And  he  walked  up  and  offered  his  hand,  with  “ How  de’  do, 
Briggs  ? Who  would  have  thought  of  our  falling  from  the  skies 
against  each  other  in  this  fashion  ? ” 

Mr.  Briggs  hesitated  a moment,  and  then  took  coldly  the 
offered  hand. 

“ Excuse  me  ; but  the  circumstances  of  my  visit  here  are  too 
painful  to  allow  me  to  wish  for  society.” 

And  Mr.  Briggs  withdrew,  evidently  glad  to  escape. 


28 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


“ Has  he  vampoosed  with  the  contents  of  a till,  that  he  wishes 
so  for  solitude  ? ” asked  Tom ; and,  shouldering  his  carjjet-hag  a 
second  time,  with  a grim  inward  laugh,  he  went  to  his  father’s 
house,  and  hung  up  his  hat  in  the  hall,  just  as  if  he  had  come  in 
from  a walk,  and  walked  into  the  study ; and  not  finding  the 
old  man,  stepped  through  the  garden  to  Mark  Arms  worth’s,  and 
in  at  the  drawing-room  window,  frightening  out  of  her  wits  a 
short,  pale,  ugly  girl  of  seventeen,  whom  he  discovered  to  be  his 
old  play-fellow,  Mary.  However,  she  soon  recovered  her  equa- 
nimity : he  certainly  never  lost  his. 

“ How  de’  do,  darling  ? How  you  are  grown  ! and  how  well 
you  look ! How’s  your  father?  I hadn’t  anything  particular  to  do, 
so  I thought  I’d  come  home  and  see  you  all,  and  get  some  fishing.” 

And  Mary,  who  had  longed  to  throw  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
as  of  old,  and  was  restrained  by  the  thought  that  she  was  grown 
a great  girl  now,  called  in  her  father,  and  all  the  household ; and 
after  a while  the  old  Doctor  came  home,  and  the  fatted  calf  was 
killed,  and  all  made  merry  over  the  return  of  this  altogether  un- 
repentant prodigal  son,  who,  whether  from  affectation,  or  from 
that  blunted  sensibility  which  often  comes  by  continual  change 
and  wandering,  took  all  their  affection  and  delight  with  the  most 
provoking  coolness. 

Nevertheless,  though  his  feelings  were  not  a demonstrative,”  as 
fine  ladies  say  now-a-days,  he  evidently  had  some  left  in  some 
corner  of  his  heart  : for  after  the  fatted  calf  was  eaten,  and  they 
were  all  settled  in  the  Doctor’s  study,  it  came  out  that  his  carpet- 
bag contained  little  but  presents,  and  those  valuable  ones — rare 
minerals  from  the  Ural  for  his  father  ; a pair  of  Circassian  pistols 
for  Mark ; and  for  little  Mary,  to  her  astonishment,  a Eussian 
malachite  bracelet,  at  which  Mary’s  eyes  opened  wide,  and  old 
Mark  said — 

“ Pretty  fellow  you  are,  to  go  fooling  your  money  away  like 
that.  What  did  that  gimcrack  cost,  pray,  Sir  ? ” 

“ That  is  no  concern  of  yours,  Sir,  or  mine  either ; for  I didn’t 
pay  for  it.” 

“ Oh !”  said  Mary,  doubtingly. 

“No,  Mary.  I killed  a giant,  who  was  carrying  off  a beautiful 
princess ; and  this,  you  see,  he  wore  as  a ring  on  one  of  his 
fingers  : so  I thought  it  would  just  suit  your  wrist.” 

“ Oh,  Tom — Mr.  Thurnall — what  nonsense  ! ” 

“ Come,  come,”  said  his  father ; u instead  of  telling  us  these 
sort  of  stories,  you  ought  to  give  an  account  of  yourself,  as  you 
seem  quite  to  forget  that  we  have  not  heard  from  you  for  more 
than  two  years.” 

“Whew  ! I wrote,”  said  Tom,  “whenever  I could.  However, 
you  can  have  all  my  letters  in  one  now.” 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


29 


So  they  sat  round  the  fire,  and  Tom  gave  an  account  of  himself ; 
while  his  father  marked  with  pride  that  the  young  man  had 
grown  and  strengthened  in  body  and  in  mind ; and  that  under 
that  nonchalant,  almost  cynical  outside,  the  heart  still  beat 
honest  and  kindly.  For  before  Tom  began,  he  w^ould  needs 
draw  his  chair  closer  to  his  father’s,  and  half- whispered  to  him, — 
“ This  is  very  jolly.  I can’t  be  sentimental,  you  know. 
Knocking  about  the  world  has  beat  all  that  out  of  me  : but 
it  is  very  comfortable,  after  all,  to  find  oneself  with  a dear  old 
daddy,  and  a good  coal  fire.” 

“ Which  of  the  two  could  you  best  do  without  ? ” 

“ Well,  one  takes  things  as  one  finds  them.  It  don’t  do  to 
look  too  deeply  into  one’s  feelings.  Like  chemicals,  the  more 
you  analyse  them,  the  worse  they  smell.” 

So  Tom  began  his  story. 

“ You  heard  from  me  at  Bombay ; after  I’d  been  up  to  the 
Himalaya  with  an  old  Mumpsimus  friend  % ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Wellj  I worked  my  way  to  Suez  on  board  a ship  whose  doctor 
had  fallen  ill ; and  then  I must  needs  see  a little  of  Egypt ; and 
there  robbed  was  I,  and  nearly  murdered,  too  ; but  I take  a good 
deal  of  killing.” 

“ I’ll  warrant  you  do,”  said  Mark,  looking  at  him  with  pride. 
“So  I begged  my  way  to  Cairo ; and  there  I picked  up  a 
Yankee — a New  Yorker,  made  of  money,  who  had  a yacht  at 
Alexandria,  and  travelled  en  prince  ; and  nothing  would  serve 
him  but  I must  go  with  him  to  Constantinople ; but  there  he 
and  I quarrelled — more  fools,  both  of  us  ! I wrote  to  you  from 
Constantinople.” 

“We  never  got  the  letter.” 

“ I can’t  help  that;  I wrote.  But  there  I was  on  the  wide 
world  again.  So  I took  up  with  a Bussian  prince,  whom  I met 
at  a gambling-table  in  Pera, — a mere  boy,  but  such  a plucky 
one, — and  went  with  him  to  Circassia,  and  up  to  Astrakhan,  and 
on  to  the  Kirghis  steppes ; and  there  I did  see  snakes.” 

“ Snakes  ? ” says  Mary.  “ I should  have  thought  you  had 
seen  plenty  in  India  already.” 

“Yes,  Mary  ! but  these  were  snakes  spiritual  and  metaphorical. 
T Dr,  poking  about  where  we  had  no  business,  Mary,  the  Tartar's 
caught  us,  and  tied  us  to  their  horses’  tails,  after  giving  me  this 
scar  across  the  cheek,  and  taught  us  to  drink  mares’  milk,  and 
to  do  a good  deal  of  dirty  work  beside.  So  there  we  stayed 
with  them  six  months,  and  observed  their  manners,  which  were 
none,  and  their  customs,  which  were  disgusting,  as  the  midship- 
man said  in  his  diary ; and  had  the  honour  of  visiting  a pleasant 
little  place  in  No-man’s  Land,  called  Khiva,  which  you  may 


30 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


find  in  your  atlas,  Mary ; and  of  very  nearly  being  sold  foi 
slaves  into  Persia,  which  would  not  have  been  pleasant ; and  at 
last,  Mary,  we  ran  away — or  rather,  rode  away,  on* two  razor- 
backed  Calmuc  ponies,  and  got  back  to  Eussia,  via  Orenberg, — 
for  which  consult  your  atlas  again ; so  the  young  prince  was 
restored  to  the  bosom  of  his  afflicted  family ; and  a good  deal  of 
trouble  I had  to  get  him  safe  there,  for  the  poor  boy’s  health 
gave  way.  They  wanted  me  to  stay  with  them,  and  offered  to 
make  my  fortune.” 

“ I’m  so  glad  you  didn’t,”  said  Mary. 

“Well — I wanted  to  see  little  Mary  again,  and  two  worthy 
old  gentlemen  beside,  you  see.  However,  those  Eussians  are 
generous  enough.  They  filled  my  pockets,  and  heaped  me  with 
presents ; that  bracelet  among  them.  What’s  more,  Mary,  I’ve 
been  introduced  to  old  Hick  himself,  and  can  testify,  from  per- 
sonal experience,  to  the  correctness  of  Shakspeare’s  opinion  that 
the  prince  of  darkness  is  a gentleman.” 

“ And  now  you  are  going  to  stay  at  home  V asked  the  Doctor. 

“ Well,  if  you’ll  take  me  in,  Daddy,  I’ll  send  for  my  traps 
from  London,  and  stay  a month  or  so.” 

“ A month  ! ” cried  the  forlorn  father. 

“Well,  Daddy,  you  see,  there  is  a chance  of  more  fighting  in 
Mexico,  and  I shall  see  such  practice  there ; beside  meeting  old 
friends  who  were  with  me  in  Texas.  And — and  I’ve  got  a little 
commission,  too,  down  in  Georgia,  that  I should  like  to  go 
and  do.” 

“ What  is  that  ? ” 

“ Well, — it’s  a long  story  and  a sad  one  : — but  there  was  a poor 
Yankee  surgeon  with  the  army  in  Circassia — a Southerner,  and 
a very  good  fellow  ; and  he  had  taken  a fancy  to  some  coloured 
girl  at  home — poor  fellow,  he  used  to  go  half  mad  about  her 
sometimes,  when  he  was  talking  to  me,  for  fear  she  should  have 
been  sold — sent  to  the  Hew  Orleans  market,  or  some  other 
devilry;  and  what  could  I say  to  comfort  him'?  Well,  he  got 
his  mittimus  by  one  of  Schamyl’s  bullets ; and  when  he  was 
dying,  he  made  me  promise  (I  hadn’t  the  heart  to  refuse)  to  take 
all  his  savings,  which  he  had  been  hoarding  for  years  for  no 
other  purpose,  and  see  if  I couldn’t  buy  the  girl,  and  get  her 
away  to  Canada.  I was  a fool  for  promising.  It  was  no  concern 
of  mine ; but  the  poor  fellow  wouldn’t  die  in  peace  else.  So 
what  must  be,  must.” 

“ Oh,  go  ! go  ! ” said  Mary.  “ You  will  let  him  go,  Doctor 
Thurnall,  and  see  the  poor  girl  free  ? Think  how  dreadful  it 
must  be  to  be  a slave.” 

“ I will,  my  little  Miss  Mary ; and  for  more  reasons  than  you 
think  of.  Little  do  you  know  how  dreadful  it  is  to  be  a slave.” 


POETRY  AND  FKOSE. 


31 


“ Hum  ! ” said  Mark  Armsworth.  “ That’s  a queer  story. 
Torn,  have  you  got  the  poor  fellow’s  money?  Didn’t  lose  it 
when  you  were  taken  by  those  Tartars  ? ” 

“ Not  I.  I wasn’t  so  green  as  to  carry  it  with  me.  It  ought 
to  have  been  in  England  six  months  ago.  My  only  fear  is,  it’s 
not  enough.” 

“ Hum  ! ” said  Mark.  “ How  much  more  do  you  think  you’ll 
want  ? ” 

“ Heaven  knows.  There  is  a thousand  dollars;  but  if  she 
be  half  as  beautiful  as  poor  Wyse  used  to  swear  she  was,  I may 
want  more  than  double  that.” 

“ If  you  do,  pay  it,  and  I’ll  pay  you  again.  No,  by  George  ! ” 
said  Mark,  “ no  one  shall  say  that  while  Mark  Arms  worth  had 
a balance  at  his  bankers’  he  let  a poor  girl — ” and,  recollecting 
Mary’s  presence,  he  finished  his  sentence  by  sundry  stamps  and 
thumps  on  the  table. 

i:  You  would  soon  exhaust  your  balance,  if  you  set  to  work 
to  free  all  poor  girls  who  are  in  the  same  case  in  Georgia,”  said 
the  Doctor. 

“ Well,  what  of  that  ? Them  I don’t  know  of,  and  so  I ain’t 
responsible  for  them  ; but  this  one  I do  know  of,  and  so — there, 
I can’t  argue ; but,  Tom,  if  you  want  the  money,  you  know 
where  to  find  it.” 

“ Very  good.  By  the  bye — I forgot  it  till  this  moment — who 
should  come  down  in  the  coach  with  me  but  the  lost  John 
Briggs.”  _ 

“ He  is  come  too  late,  then,”  said  the  Doctor.  “ His  poor 
father  died  this  morning.” 

Ah  ! then  Briggs  knew  that  he  was  ill?  That  explains  the 
Manfredic  mystery  and  gloom  with  which  he  greeted  me.” 

“ I cannot  tell.  He  has  written  from  time  to  time,  but  he 
has  never  given  any  address  ; so  that  no  one  could  write  in 
return.” 

“ He  may  have  known.  He  looked  very  downcast.  Perhaps 
that  explains  his  cutting  me  dead.” 

“ Cut  you  ? ” cried  Mark.  “ I dare  say  he’s  been  doing  some- 
thing he’s  ashamed  of,  and  don’t  want  to  be  recognised.  That 
fellow  has  been  after  no  good  all  this  while,  I’ll  warrant.  I 
always  say  he’s  connected  with  the  swell  mob,  or  croupier  at  a 
gambling-table,  or  something  of  that  kind.  Don’t  you  think  it’s 
likely,  now  ? ” 

Mark  was  in  the  habit  of  so  saying  for  the  purpose  of  torment- 
ing the  Doctor,  who  held  stoutly  to  his  old  belief,  that  John 
Briggs  was  a very  clever  man,  and  would  turn  up  some  day  as  a 
distinguished  literary  character. 

“ Well,”  said  Tom,  “ honest  or  not,  he’s  thriving;  came  down 


32 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


inside  the  coach,  dressed  in  the  distinguished  foreigner  style,  with 
lavender  kid-gloves,  and  French  boots.” 

“ Just  like  a swell  pickpocket,”  said  Mark.  “ I always  told 
you  so,  Thurnall.” 

“ He  had  the  old  Byron  collar,  and  Baphael  hair,  though.” 

“ Hasty,  effeminate,  un-English  foppery,”  grumbled  Mark ; “so 
he  may  be  in  the  scribbling  line  after  all.” 

“ I’ll  go  and  see  if  I can  find  him,”  quoth  the  Doctor. 

“ Bother  you,”  said  Mark,  “ always  running  out  o’nights  after 
somebody  else’s  business,  instead  of  having  a jolly  evening.  You 
stay,  Tom,  like  a sensible  fellow,  and  tell  me  and  Mary  some  more 
travellers’  lies.  Had  much  sporting,  boy  ? ” 

“ Hum  ! I’ve  shot  and  hunted  every  beast,  I think,  shootable 
and  huntable,  from  a humming-bird  to  an  elephant ; and  I had 
some  splendid  fishing  in  Canada ; but,  after  all,  give  me  a Whit- 
bury  trout,  on  a single-handed  Chevalier.  We’ll  at  them  to- 
morrow, Mr.  Armsworth.” 

“We  will,  my  boy  ! never  so  many  fish  in  the  river  as  this 
year,  or  in  season  so  early.” 

The  good  Doctor  returned;  but  with  no  news  which  could 
throw  light  on  the  history  of  the  now  mysterious  Mr.  John  Briggs. 
He  had  locked  himself  into  the  room  with  his  father’s  corpse, 
evidently  in  great  excitement  and  grief ; spent  several  hours  in 
walking  up  and  down  there  alone ; and  had  then  gone  to  an 
attorney  in  the  town,  and  settled  everything  about  the  funeral 
“ in  the  handsomest  way,”  said  the  man  of  law ; “ and  was  quite 
the  gentlemen  in  his  manner,  but  not  much  of  a man  of  business  ; 
never  had  even  thought  of  looking  for  his  father’s  will ; and  was 
quite  surprised  when  I told  him  that  there  ought  to  be  a fair  sum 
— eight  hundred  or  a thousand,  perhaps,  to  come  in  to  him,  if  the 
stock  and  business  were  properly  disposed  of.  So  he  went  off  to 
London  by  the  evening  mail,  and  told  me  to  address  him  at  the 
post-office  in  some  street  off  the  Strand.  Queer  business,  Sir, 
isn’t  it  h ” 

John  Briggs  did  not  reappear  till  a few  minutes  before  his 
father’s  funeral,  witnessed  the  ceremony  evidently  with  great 
sorrow,  bowed  off  silently  all  who  attempted  to  speak  to  him,  and 
returned  to  London  by  the  next  coach — leaving  matter  for  much 
babble  among  all  Whitbury  gossips.  One  tiling  at  least  was 
plain,  that  he  wished  to  be  forgotten  in  his  native  town;  and 
forgotten  he  was,  in  due  course  of  time. 

Tom  Thurnall  staid  his  month  at  home,  and  then  went  to 
America ; whence  he  wrote  home,  in  about  six  months,  a letter, 
of  which  only  one  paragraph  need  interest  us. 

" Tell  Mark  I have  no  need  for  his  dollars.  I have  done  the 
deed;  and,  thanks  to  the  underground  railway,  done  it  nearly 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


33 


gratis ; which,  was  both  cheaper  than  buying  her,  and  infinitely 
better  for  me;  so  that  she  has  all  poor  Wyse’s  dollars  to  start 
with  afresh  in  Canada.  I write  this  from  New  York.  I could 
accompany  her  no  further ; for  I must  get  back  to  the  South  in 
time  for  the  Mexican  expedition  ” 

Then  came  a long  and  anxious  silence ; and  then  a letter,  not 
from  Mexico,  but  from  California, — one  out  of  several  which  had 
been  posted;  and  then  letters,  more  regularly  from  Australia. 
Sickened  with  Californian  life,  he  had  crossed  the  Pacific  once 
more,  and  was  hard  at  work  in  the  diggings,  doctoring  and  gold- 
finding by  turns. 

“ A rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss,”  said  his  father. 

“ He  has  the  pluck  of  a hound,  and  the  cunning  of  a fox,”  said 
Mark;  and  he’ll  be  a credit  to  you  yet.” 

And  Mary  prayed  every  morning  and  night  for  her  old  play- 
fellow; and  so  the  years  slipped  on  till  the  autumn  of  1853. 

As  no  one  has  heard  of  Tom  now  for  eight  months  and  more 
(the  pulse  of  Australian  postage  being  of  a somewhat  intermittent 
type),  we  may  as  well  go  and  look  for  him. 

A sheet  of  dark  rolling  ground,  quarried  into  a gigantic  rabbit 
burrow,  with  hundreds  of  tents  and  huts  dotted  about  among  the 
heaps  of  rubbish ; dark  evergreen  forests  in  the  distance,  and, 
above  all,  the  great  volcanic  mountain  of  Buninyong  towering  far 
aloft — these  are  the  “ Black  Hills  of  Ballarat ;”  and  that  windlass 
at  that  shaft’s  mouth  belongs  in  part  to  Thomas  Thurnall. 

At  the  windlass  are  standing  two  men,  whom  we  may  have  seen 
in  past  years,  self-satisfied  in  countenance,  and  spotless  in  array, 
sauntering  down  Piccadilly  any  July  afternoon,  or  lounging  in 
Haggis’s  stable-yard  at  Cambridge  any  autumn  morning.  Alas  ! 
how  changed  from  the  fast  young  undergraduates,  with  powers  of 
enjoyment  only  equalled  by  their  powers  of  running  into  debt,  are 
those  two  black-bearded  and  mud-bespattered  ruffians,  who  once 
were  Smith  and  Brown  of  Trinity.  Yet  who  need  pity  them,  as 
long  as  they  have  stouter  limbs,  healthier  stomachs,  and  clearer 
consciences,  than  they  have  had  since  they  left  Eton  at  seventeen  ? 
Would  Smith  have  been  a happier  man  as  a briefless  barrister  in 
a dingy  Inn  of  Law,  peeping  now  and  then  into  third-rate  London 
society,  and  scribbling  for  the  daily  press  ? Would  Brown  have 
been  a happier  man  had  he  been  forced  into  those  holy  orders  for 
which  he  never  felt  the  least  vocation,  to  pay  off  his  college  debts 
out  of  his  curate’s  income,  and  settle  down  on  his  lees,  at  last,  in 
the  family  living  of  Homansland-cum-Clayhole,  and  support  a wife 
and  five  children  on  five  hundred  a-year,  exclusive  of  rates  and 
taxes  ? Let  them  dig,  and  be  men. 

The  windlass  rattles,  and  the  rope  goes  down.  A shout  from 
the  bottom  of  the  shaft  proclaims  all  right ; and  in  due  time, 


34 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


sitting  in  the  noose  of  the  rope,  np  conies  Thomas  Thurnall, 
hare-footed  and  bare-headed,  in  flannel  trousers  and  red  jersey, 
begrimed  with  slush  and  mud  ; with  a mahogany  face,  a brick-red 
neck,  and  a huge  brown  beard,  looking,  to  use  his  own  expression, 
“ as  jolly  as  a sandboy.” 

“ A letter  for  you,  Doctor,  from  Europe.” 

Tom  takes  it,  and  his  countenance  falls ; for  it  is  black-edged 
and  black-sealed.  The  handwriting  is  Mary  Armsworth’s. 

“ I suppose  the  old  lady  who  is  going  to  leave  me  a fortune  is 
dead,”  says  he,  drily,  and  turns  away  to  read. 

“ Bad  luck,  I suppose,”  he  says  to  himself,  “ I have  not  had 
any  for  full  six  months,  so  I suppose  it  is  time  for  Dame  Fortune 
to  give  me  a sly  stab  again.  I only  hope  it  is  not  my  father ; 
for,  begging  the  Dame’s  pardon,  I can  bear  any  trick  of  hers  but 
that.”  And  he  sets  his  teeth  doggedly,  and  reads. 

“My  dear  Mr.  Thurnall, — My  father  would  have  written 
himself,  but  he  thought,  I don’t  know  why,  that  I could  tell  you 
better  than  he.  Your  father  is  quite  well  in  health,” — Thurnall 
breathes  freely  again — “ but  he  has  had  heavy  trials  since  your 
poor  brother  William’s  death.” 

Tom  opens  his  eyes  and  sets  his  teeth  more  firmly.  “ Willy 
dead  ? I suppose  there  is  a letter  lost : better  so ; better  to  have 
the  whole  list  of  troubles  together,  and  so  get  them  sooner  over. 
Poor  Will !” 

“ Your  father  caught  the  scarlet  fever  from  him,  while  he  was 
attending  him,  and  was  very  ill  after  he  came  back.  He  is  quite 
well  again  now  ; but  if  I must  tell  you  the  truth,  the  disease  has 
affected  his  eyes.  You  know  how  weak  they  always  were,  and 
how  much  worse  they  have  grown  of  late  years ; and  the  doctors 
are  afraid  that  he  has  little  chance  of  recovering  the  sight,  at 
least  of  the  left  eye.” 

“ Eecovering  ? He’s  blind,  then.”  And  Tom  set  his  teeth 
more  tightly  than  ever.  He  felt  a sob  rise  in  his  throat,  but 
choked  it  down,  shaking  his  head  like  an  impatient  bull. 

“Wait  a bit,  Tom,”  said  he  to  himself,  “before  you  have  it 
out  with  Dame  Fortune.  There’s  more  behind,  I’ll  warrant. 
Hews  like  this  lies  in  pockets,  and  not  in  single  nuggets.”  And 
he  read  on — 

“ And — for  it  is  better  you  should  know  all — something  has 
happened  to  the  railroad  in  which  he  had  invested  so  much. 
My  father  has  lost  money  in  it  also  ; but  not  much  : but  I fear 
that  your  poor  dear  father  is  very  much  straitened.  My  father 
is  dreadfully  vexed  about  it,  and  thinks  it  all  his  fault  in  not 
having  watched  the  matter  more  closely,  and  made  your  father 
sell  out  in  time  : and  he  wants  your  father  to  come  and  live  with 
us  : but  he  will  not  hear  of  it.  So  he  has  given  up  the  old 


POETRY  AXD  PROSE. 


35 


house,  and  taken  one  in  Water-street,  and,  oh ! I need  not  tell 
you  that  we  are  there  every  day,  and  that  I am  trying  to  make 
him  as  happy  as  I can — but  what  can  I do  V 1 And  then  followed 
kind  womanly  common-places,  which  Tom  hurried  over  with 
fierce  impatience. 

“ He  wants  you  to  come  home  ; hut  my  father  has  entreated 
him  to  let  you  stay.  You  know,  while  we  are  here,  he  is  safe  ; 
and  my  father  begs  you  not  to  come  home,  if  you  are  succeeding 
as  well  as  you  have  been  doing.” 

There  was  much  more  in  the  letter,  which  I need  not  repeat  ; 
and,  after  all,  a short  postscript,  by  Mark  himself,  followed  : — 

“ Stay  where  you  are,  boy,  and  keep  up  heart ; while  I have  a 
pound,  your  father  shall  have  half  of  it ; and  you  know  Mark 
Armsworth.” 

He  walked  away  slowly  into  the  forest.  He  felt  that  the  crisis 
of  his  life  was  come  ; that  he  must  turn  his  hand  henceforth  to 
quite  new  work;  and  as  he  went  he  “took  stock,”  as  it  were,  of  his 
own  soul,  to  see  what  point  he  had  attained — what  he  could  do. 

Fifteen  years  of  adventure  had  hardened  into  wrought  metal  a 
character  never  very  ductile.  Tom  was  now,  in  his  own  way,  an 
altogether  accomplished  man  of  the  world,  who  knew  (at  least  in 
all  companies  and  places  where  he  was  likely  to  find  himself) 
exactly  what  to  say,  to  do,  to  make,  to  seek,  and  to  avoid.  Shifty 
and  thrifty  as  old  Greek,  or  modern  Scot,  there  were  few  things 
he  could  not  invent,  and  perhaps  nothing  he  could  not  endure. 
He  had  watched  human  nature  under  every  disguise,  from  the 
pomp  of  the  ambassador  to  the  war-paint  of  the  savage,  and 
formed  his  own  clear,  hard,  shallow,  practical  estimate  thereof. 
He  looked  on  it  as  his  raw  material,  which  he  had  to  work 
up  into  subsistence  and  comfort  for  himself  He  did  not  wish 
to  live  on  men,  but  live  by  them  he  must ; and  for  that  purpose 
he  must  study  them,  and  especially  their  weaknesses.  He  would 
not  cheat  them ; for  there  was  in  him  an  innate  vein  of  honesty, 
so  surly  and  explosive,  at  times,  as  to  give  him  much  trouble. 
The  severest  part  of  his  self-education  had  been  the  repression 
of  his  dangerous  inclination  to  call  a sham  a sham  on  the  spot, 
and  to  answer  fools  according  to  their  folly.  That  youthful 
rashness,  however,  was  now  well-nigh  subdued,  and  Tom  could 
hatter  and  bully  also,  when  it  served  his  turn — as  who  cannot  ? 
Let  him  that  is  without  sin  among  my  readers,  cast  the  first 
stone.  Self-conscious  he  was,  therefore,  in  every  word  and 
action;  not  from  morbid  vanity,  but  a necessary  consequence 
of  his  mode  of  life.  He  had  to  use  men,  and  therefore  to 
watch  now  he  used  them ; to  watch  every  word,  gesture,  tone  of 
voice,  and,  in  all  times  and  places,  do  the  fitting  thing.  It  was 
hard  work  : but  necessary  for  a man  who  stood  alone  and  self 


36 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


poised  in  the  midst  of  the  universe ; fashioning  for  himself 
everywhere,  just  as  far  as  his  arm  could  reach,  some  not  intoler- 
able condition;  depending  on  nothing  hut  himself,  and  caring 
for  little  hut  himself  and  the  father  whom,  to  do  him  justice,  he 
never  forgot.  If  I wished  to  define  Tom  Thurnall  hy  one 
epithet,  I should  call  him  specially  an  ungodly  man — were  it  not 
that  scriptural  epithets  have,  now-a-days,  such  altogether  conven- 
tional and  official  meanings,  that  one  fears  to  convey,  in  using 
them,  some  notion  quite  foreign  to  the  truth.  Tom  was  certainly 
not  one  of  those  ungodly  whom  David  had  to  deal  with  of  old, 
who  rohhed  the  widow,  and  put  the  fatherless  to  death.  His 
morality  was  as  high  as  that  of  the  average  ; his  sense  of  honour 
far  higher.  He  was  generous  and  kind-hearted.  Ho  one  ever 
heard  him  tell  a lie  ; and  he  had  a hlunt  honesty  about  him,  half 
real,  because  he  liked  to  be  honest,  and  yet  half  affected  too, 
because  he  found  it  pay  in  the  long  run,  and  because  it  threw  off 
their  guard  the  people  whom  he  intended  to  make  his  tools. 
But  of  godliness  in  its  true  sense — of  belief  that  any  Being  above 
cared  for  him,  and  was  helping  him  in  the  daily  business  of  life 
— that  it  wras  worth  while  asking  that  Being’s  advice,  or  that 
any  advice  would  be  given  if  asked  for ; of  any  practical  notion 
of  a Heavenly  Father,  or  a Divine  education — Tom  was  as  igno- 
rant as  thousands  of  respectable  people  who  go  to  church  every 
Sunday,  and  read  good  books,  and  believe  firmly  that  the  Pope  is 
Antichrist.  He  ought  to  have  learnt  it,  no  doubt ; for  his  father 
was  a religious  man  : but  he  had  not  learnt  it — any  more  than 
thousands  learn  it,  who  have  likewise  religious  parents.  He  had 
been  taught,  of  course,  the  common  doctrines  and  duties  of 
religion ; but  early  remembrances  had  been  rubbed  out,  as  off  a 
schoolboy’s  slate,  by  the  mere  current  of  new  thoughts  and 
objects,  in  his  continual  wanderings.  Disappointments  he  had 
had,  and  dangers  in  plenty ; but  only  such  as  rouse  a brave  and 
cheerful  spirit  to  bolder  self-reliance  and  invention ; not  those 
deep  sorrows  of  the  heart  which  leave  a man  helpless  in  the 
lowest  pit,  crying  for  help  from  without,  for  there  is  none  within. 
He  had  seen  men  of  all  creeds,  and  had  found  in  all  alike  (so  he 
held)  the  many  rogues,  and  the  few  honest  men.  All  religions 
were,  in  his  eyes,  equally  true  and  equally  false.  Superior 
morality  was  owing  principally  to  the  influences  of  race  and 
climate ; and  devotional  experiences  (to  judge,  at  least,  from. 
American  camp-meetings  and  popish  cities)  the  results  of  a diseased 
nervous  system. 

Upon  a man  so  hard  and  strong  this  fearful  blow  had  fallen, 
and,  to  do  him  justice,  he  took  it  like  a man.  He  wandered  on 
and  on  for  an  hour  or  more,  up  the  hills,  and  into  the  forest* 
talking  to  himself. 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


37 


“ Poor  old  Willy  ! I should  have  liked  to  nave  looked  into 
his  honest  face  before  he  went,  if  only  to  make  sure  that  we  were 
good  friends.  I used  to  plague  him  sadly  with  my  tricks.  But 
what  is  the  use  of  wishing  for  what  cannot  be  ? I recollect  I 
had  just  the  same  feeling  when  John  died ; and  yet  I got  over  it 
after  a time,  and  was  as  cheerful  as  if  he  were  alive  again,  or  had 
never  lived  at  all.  And  so  I shall  get  over  this.  Why  should 
I give  way  to  what  I know  will  pass,  and  is  meant  to  pass  ? It 
is  my  father  I feel  for.  But  I couldn’t  be  there ; and  it  is  no 
fault  of  mine  that  I was  not  there.  Ho  one  told  me  what  was 
going  to  happen ; and  no  one  could  know  : so  again, — whj 
grieve  over  what  can’t  be  helped  ? ” 

And  then,  to  give  the  lie  to  all  his  cool  arguments,  he  sat 
down  among  the  fern,  and  burst  into  a violent  fit  of  crying. 
“ Oh,  my  poor  dear  old  daddy  ! ” 

Yes  ; beneath  all  the  hard  crust  of  years,  that  fountain  of  life 
still  lay  pure  as  when  it  came  down  from  heaven — love  for  his 
father. 

“ Come,  come,  this  won’t  do  ; this  is  not  the  way  to  take 
stock  of  my  goods,  either  mental  or  worldly.  I can’t  cry  the 
dear  old  man  out  of  this  scrape.” 

He  looked  up.  The  sun  was  setting.  Beneath  the  dark  roof 
of  evergreens  the  eucalyptus  boles  stood  out,  like  basalt  pillars, 
black  against  a background  of  burning  flame.  The  flying  foxes 
shot  from  tree  to  tree,  and  moths  as  big  as  sparrows  whirred 
about  the  trunks,  one  moment  black  against  the  glare  beyond, 
and  vanishing  the  next,  like  imps  of  darkness,  into  their  native 
gloom.  There  was  no  sound  of  living  thing  around,  save  the 
ghastly  rattle  of  the  dead  bark-tassels  which  swung  from  every 
tree,  and  far  away,  the  faint  clicking  of  the  diggers  at  their 
work,  like  the  rustle  of  a gigantic  ant-hill.  Was  there  one 
among  them  all  who  cared  for  him  ? who  would  not  forget  him 
in  a week  with — “ Well,  he  was  pleasant  company,  poor  fellow,” 
and  go  on  digging  without  a sigh  % What,  if  it  were  his  fate  to 
die,  as  he  had  seen  many  a stronger  man,  there  in  that  lonely 
wilderness,  and  sleep  for  ever,  unhonoured  and  unknown,  beneath 
that  awful  forest  roof,  while  his  father  looked  for  bread  to  others’ 
hands % 

Ho  man  was  less  sentimental,  no  man  less  superstitious  than 
Thomas  Thurnall ; but  crushed  and  softened — all  but  terrified  (as 
who  would  not  have  been?) — by  that  day’s  news,  he  could  not 
struggle  against  the  weight  of*  loneliness  which  fell  upon  him. 
For  the  first  and  last  time,  perhaps,  in  his  life,  he  felt  fear ; a 
vague,  awful  dread  of  unseen  and  inevitable  possibilities.  Why 
should  not  calamity  fall  on  him,  wave  after  wave  ? Was  it  not 
falling  on  him  already  ? Why  should  he  not  grow  sick  to-morrow, 


38 


POETRY  AND  PROSVX 

break  bis  leg,  bis  neck — why  not  ? What  guarantee  bad  be  in 
eartli  or  heaven  that  be  might  not  be  “ snuffed  out  silently,”  as 
he  bad  seen  hundreds  already,  and  die  and  leave  no  sign  ? And 
there  sprung  up  in  him  at  once  the  intensest  yearning  after  bis 
father  and  the  haunts  of  bis  boyhood,  and  the  wildest  dread  that 
he  should  never  see  them.  Might  not  his  father  be  dead  ere  he 
could  return? — if  ever  he  did  return.  That  twelve  thousand 
miles  of  sea  looked  to  him  a gulf  impassable.  Oh,  that  he  were 
safe  at  home  ! that  he  could  start  that  moment ! And  for  one 
minute  a helplessness,  as  of  a lost  child,  came  over  him. 

Perhaps  it  had  been  well  for  him  had  he  given  that  feeling 
vent,  and,  confessing  himself  a lost  child,  cried  out  of  the  dark- 
ness to  a Father;  but  the  next  minute  he  had  dashed  it  proudly 
away. 

“ Pretty  baby  I am,  to  get  frightened,  at  my  time  of  life, 
because  I find  myself  in  a dark  wood — and  the  sun  shining  all 
the  while  as  jollily  as  ever  away  there  in  the  west ! It  is  morning 
somewhere  or  other  now,  and  it  will  be  morning  here  again 
to-morrow.  ‘ Good  times  and  bad  times,  and  all  times  pass 
over  ; ’ — I learnt  that  lesson  out  of  old  Bewick’s  vignettes,  and 
it  has  stood  me  in  good  stead  this  many  a year,  and  shall  now. 
Die?  Nonsense.  I take  more  killing  than  that  comes  to.  So 
for  one  more  bout  with  old  Dame  Fortune.  If  she  thrown  me 
again,  why,  I’ll  get  up  again,  as  I have  any  time  these  fifteen 
years.  Mark’s  right.  I’ll  stay  here  and  work  till  I make  a hit, 
or  luck  runs  dry,  and  then  home  and  settle ; and,  meanwhile, 
I’ll  go  down  to  Melbourne  to-morrow,  and  send  the  dear  old 
man  two  hundred  pounds ; and  then  back  again  here,  and  to  it 
again.” 

And  with  a fate-defiant  smile,  half  bitter  and  half  cheerful., 
Tom  rose  and  went  down  again  to  his  mates,  and  stopped  their 
inquiries  by — “ What’s  done  can’t  be  mended,  and  needn’t  be 
mentioned  ; whining  won’t  make  me  work  the  harder,  and  harder 
than  ever  I must  work.” 

Strange  it  is,  how  mortal  man,  “who  cometh  up  and  is  cut 
down  like  the  flower,”  can  thus  harden  himself  into  stoical 
security,  and  count  on  the  morrow,  which  may  never  come.  Yet 
so  it  is  ; and,  perhaps,  if  it  were  not  so,  no  work  would  get  done 
on  earth, — at  least  by  the  many  who  know  not  that  God  is 
guiding  them,  while  they  fancy  that  they  are  guiding  themselves. 


39 


CHAPTER  II. 

STILL  LIFE. 

I must  now,  if  I am  to  bring  you  to  “ Two  years  ago,”  and  tc 
my  story,  as  it  was  told  to  me,  ask  you  to  follow  me  into  the 
good  old  West  Country,  and  set  you  down  at  the  back  of  an  old 
harbour  pier;  thirty  feet  of  grey  and  brown  boulders,  spotted 
aloft  with  bright  yellow  lichens,  and  black  drops  of  tar,  polished 
lower  down  by  the  surge  of  centuries,  and  towards  the  foot  of 
the  wall  roughened  with  crusts  of  barnacles,  and  mussel-nests  in 
crack  and  cranny,  and  festoons  of  coarse  dripping  weed. 

On  a low  rock  at  its  foot,  her  back  resting  against  the  Cyclo- 
pean wall,  sits  a young  woman  of  eight-and-twenty,  soberly, 
almost  primly  dressed,  with  three  or  four  tiny  children  clustering 
round  her.  In  front  of  them,  on  a narow  spit  of  sand  between 
the  rocks,  a dozen  little  girls  are  laughing,  romping,  and  patter- 
ing, about,  turning  the  stones  for  “ shannies  ” and  “ bullies,”  and 
other  luckless  fish  left  by  the  tide ; while  the  party  beneath  the 
pier  wall  look  steadfastly  down  into  a little  rock-pool  at  their 
feet, — full  of  the  pink  and  green  and  purple  cut-work  of  delicate 
weeds  and  coralline,  and  starred  with  great  sea-dahlias,  crimson 
and  brown  and  grey,  and  with  the  waving  snake-locks  of  the 
Cereus,  pale  blue,  and  rose-tipped  like  the  fingers  of  the  dawn. 
One  delicate  Medusa  is  sliding  across  the  pool,  by  slow  pantings 
of  its  crystal  bell ; and  on  it  the  eyes  of  the  whole  group  are 
fixed, — for  it  seems  to  be  the  subject  of  some  story  which  the 
village  schoolmistress  is  finishing  in  a sweet,  half-abstracted 
voice, — 

“ And  so  the  cruel  soldier  was  changed  into  a great  rough  red 
starfish,  who  goes  about  killing  the  poor  mussels,  while  nobody 
loves  him,  or  cares  to  take  his  part ; and  the  poor  little  girl  was 
changed  into  a beautiful  bright  jelly-fish,  like  that  one,  who 
swims  about  all  day  in  the  pleasant  sunshine,  with  a red  cross 
stamped  on  its  heart.” 

4 4 Oh,  mistress,  what  a pretty  story  !”  cry  the  little  ones,  with 
tearful  eyes.  “ And  what  shall  we  be  changed  to  when  we  die?” 

“ If  we  will  only  be  good  we  shall  go  up  to  Jesus,  and  be 
beautiful  angels,  and  sing  hymns.  Would  that  it  might  be  soon, 
soon  ; for  you  and  me,  and  all !”  And  she  draws  the  children  to 
her,  and  looks  upward,  as  if  longing  to  bear  them  with  her  aloft. 

Let  us  leave  the  conversation  where  it  is,  and  look  into  the  face 
of  the  speaker,  who,  young  as  she  is,  has  already  meditated  so  long 
upon  the  mystery  of  death  that  it  has  grown  lovely  in  her  eyes. 

Her  figure  is  tall,  graceful,  and  slight,  the  severity  of  its  out 


40 


STILL  LIFE. 


lines  suiting  well  with  the  severity  of  her  dress,  with  the  brown 
stuff  gown  and  plain  grey  whittle.  .Her  neck  is  long,  almost  too 
long : hut  all  defects  are  forgotten  in  the  first  look  at  her  face. 
We  can  see  it  fully,  for  her  bonnet  lies  beside  her  on  the  rock. 

The  masque,  though  thin,  is  perfect.  The  brow,  like  that  of 
Greek  statue,  looks  lower  than  it  really  is,  for  the  hair  springs 
from  below  the  bend  of  the  forehead.  The  brain  is  very  long, 
and  sweeps  backward  and  upward  in  grand  curves,  till  it  attains 
above  the  ears  a great  expanse  and  height.  She  should  be  a 
character  more  able  to  feel  than  to  argue ; full  of  all  a woman’s 
veneration,  devotion,  love  of  children, — perhaps,  too,  of  a woman’s 
anxiety. 

The  nose  is  slightly  aquiline ; the  sharp-cut  nostrils  indicate  a 
reserve  of  compressed  strength  and  passion ; the  mouth  is  delicate ; 
the  lips,  which  are  full  and  somewhat  heavy,  not  from  coarseness, 
but  rather  from  languor,  show  somewhat  of  both  the  upper  and 
the  under  teeth.  Her  eyes  are  bent  on  the  pool  at  her  feet ; so 
that  we  can  see  nothing  of  them  but  the  large  sleepy  lids,  fringed 
with  lashes  so  long  and  dark  that  the  eye  look  as  if  it  had  been 
painted,  in  the  Eastern  fashion,  with  antimony  ; the  dark  lashes, 
dark  eyebrows,  dark  hair,  crisped  (as  West-country  hair  so  often 
is)  to  its  very  roots,  increase  the  almost  ghost-like  paleness  of 
the  face,  not  sallow,  not  snow-white,  but  of  a clear,  bloodless, 
waxen  hue. 

And  now  she  lifts  her  eyes, — dark  eyes,  of  preternatural  large- 
ness ; brilliant,  too,  but  not  with  the  sparkle  of  the  diamond ; 
brilliant  as  deep  clear  wells  are,  in  which  the  mellow  moonlight 
sleeps  fathom-deep  between  black  walls  of  rock  ; and  round  them, 
and  round  the  wide-opened  lips,  and  arching  eyebrow,  and  slightly 
wrinkled  forehead,  hangs  an  air  of  melancholy  thought,  vague 
doubt,  almost  of  startled  fear ; then  that  expression  passes,  and 
the  whole  face  collapses  into  a languor  of  patient  sadness,  which 
seems  to  say, — “ I cannot  solve  the  mystery.  Let  Him  solve  it 
as  seems  good  to  Him.” 

The  pier  has,  as  usual,  two  stages  ; the  upper  and  narrower 
for  a public  promenade,  the  lower  and  broader  one  for  business. 
Two  rough  collier-lads,  strangers  to  the  place,  are  lounging  on 
the  wall  above,  and  begin,  out  of  mere  mischief,  dropping  pebbles 
on  the  group  below. 

“ Hill  o ! you  young  rascals,”  calls  an  old  man  lounging  like 
them  on  the  wall ; “ if  you  don’t  drop  that,  you’re  likely  to  get 
your  heads  broken.” 

“ Will  you  do  it  ?” 

“ I would  thirty  years  ago ; but  I’ll  find  a dozen  in  five  minutes 
who  will  do  it  now.  Here,  lads  ! here’s  two  Welsh  vagabonds 
pelting  our  schoolmistress.” 


STILL  LIFE. 


42 

This  is  spoken  to  a group  of  Sea-Titans,  who  are  sitting  about 
on  the  pier-way  behind  him,  in  red  caps,  blue  jackets,  striped 
jerseys,  bright  brown  trousers,  and  all  the  picturesque  comfort 
of  a fisherman’s  costume,  superintending  the  mending  of  a boat. 

Up  jump  half-a-dozen  off  the  logs  and  baulkings,  where  they 
have  been  squatting,  doubled  up  knee  to  nose,  after  the  fashion 
of  their  class,  and  a volley  of  execrations,  like  a storm  of  grape, 
almost  blows  the  two  offenders  off  the  wall.  The  bolder,  how- 
ever, lingers,  anathematizing  in  turn ; whereon  a black-bearded 
youth,  some  six  feet  four  in  height,  catches  up  an  oar,  makes  a 
sweep  at  the  shins  of  the  lad  above  his  head,  and  brings  him 
writhing  down  upon  the  upper  pier- way,  whence  he  walks  off 
howling,  and  muttering  threats  of  “ taking  the  law.”  In  vain ; 
— there  is  not  a magistrate  within  ten  miles  ; and  custom,  Lynch- 
law,  and  the  coast-guard  lieutenant,  settle  all  matters  in  Aberalva 
town,  and  do  so  easily  enough ; for  the  petty  crimes  which  fill 
our  gaols  are  all  unknown  among  those  honest  Vikings’  sons ; 
and  any  man  who  covets  his  neighbour’s  goods,  instead  of  stealing 
them  has  only  to  go  and  borrow  them,  on  condition,  of  course, 
of  lending  in  his  turn. 

“ What’s  that  collier-lad  hollering  about,  Captain  Willis  ?”  asks 
Mr.  Tardrew,  steward  to  Lord  Scoutbush,  landlord  of  Aberalva, 
as  he  comes  up  to  the  old  man. 

“ Gentleman  Jan  cut  him  over,  for  pelting  the  schoolmistress 
below  here.” 

“ Serve  him  right ; he’ll  have  to  cut  over  that  curate  next,  I 
reckon.” 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Tardrew,  don’t  you  talk  so ; the  young  gentleman 
is  as  kind  a man  as  I ever  saw,  and  comes  in  and  out  of  our  house 
like  a lamb.” 

“Wolf  in  sheep’s  clothing,”  growls  Tardrew.  “What  d’ye 
think  he  says  to  me  last  week  ? Wanted  to  turn  the  school- 
mistress out  of  her  place  because  she  went  to  chapel  sometimes.” 

“ I know,  I know,”  replied  Willis,  in  the  tone  of  a man  who 
wished  to  avoid  a painful  subject.  “And  what  did  you  answer, 
then,  Mr.  Tardrew  ?” 

“ I told  him  he  might  if  he  liked ; but  he’d  make  the  place 
too  hot  to  hold  him,  if  he  hadn’t  done  it  already,  with  his  bow- 
ings and  his  crossings,  and  his  chantings,  and  his  Popish  Gre- 
gories, — and  tells  one  he’s  no  Papist ; called  him  Pope  Gregory 
himself.  What  do  we  want  with  popes’  tunes  here,  instead  of 
the  Old  Hundredth  and  Martyrdom?  I should  like  to  see  any 
Pope  of  the  lot  make  a tune  like  them.” 

Captain  Willis  listened  with  a face  half  sad,  half  slily  amused. 
He  and  Tardrew  were  old  friends ; being  the  two  most  notable 
persons  in  the  parish,  save  J ones  the  lieutenant,  Heale  the  doctor, 


42 


STILL  LIFE. 


and  another  gentleman,  of  whom  we  shall  speak  presently.  Both 
of  them  too,  • were  thorough-going  Protestants,  and,  though 
Churchmen,  walked  sometimes  into  the  Brianite  Chapel  of  an 
afternoon,  and  thought  it  no  sin.  But  each  took  the  curate’s 
“ Puseyism”  in  a different  way,  Being  two  men  as  unlike  each 
other  as  one  could  well  find. 

Tardrew, — steward  to  Lord  Scouthusli,  the  absentee  landlord, 
— was  a shrewd,  hard-bitten,  choleric  old  fellow,  of  the  shape, 
colour,  and  consistence  of  a red  brick ; one  of  those  English 
types  which  Mr.  Emerson  has  so  well  hit  off  in  his  rather 
confused  and  contradictory  “ Traits  : ” — 

“He  hides  virtues  under  vices,  or,  rather,  under  the  semblance 
of  them.  It  is  the  misshapen,  hairy,  Scandinavian  Troll  again 
who  lifts  the  cart  out  of  the  mire,  or  threshes  the  corn  which 
ten  day-labourers  could  not  end  : blit  it  is  done  in  the  dark,  and 
with  muttered  maledictions.  He  is  a churl  with  a soft  place  in 
his  heart,  whose  speech  is  a brash  of  bitter  waters,  but  who 
loves  to  help  you  at  a pinch.  He  says,  Ho;  and  serves  you, 
and  his  thanks  disgust  you.”  Such  was  Tardrew, — a true 
British  bull-dog,  who  lived  pretty  faithfully  up  to  his  Old 
Testament,  but  had,  somehow,  forgotten  the  existence  of  the  Hew. 

Willis  was  a very  different  and  a very  much  nobler  person ; the 
most  perfect  specimen  which  I ever  have  met  (for  I knew  him 
well,  and  loved  him)  of  that  type  of  British  sailor  which  good 
Captain  Marryat  has  painted  in  his  Masterman  Eeady,  and 
painted  far  better  than  I can,  even  though  I do  so  from  life.  A 
tall  and#  graceful  old  man,  though  stooping  much  from  lumbago 
and  old  wounds ; with  snow-white  air  and  whiskers,  delicate 
aquiline  features,  the  manners  of  a nobleman,  and  the  heart  of  a 
child.  All  children  knew  that  latter  fact,  and  clung  to  him 
instinctively.  Even  “the  Boys,”  that  terrible  Berserk-tribe,  self- 
organized,  self-dependent,  and  bound  together  in  common  ini- 
quities and  the  dread  of  common  retribution,  who  w^ere  in 
Aberalva,  as  all  fishing  towns,  the  torment  and  terror  of  all 
douce  fogies,  male  and  female, — even  the  Boys,  I say,  respected 
Captain  Willis,  so  potent  was  the  influence  of  his  gentleness ; 
nailed  not  up  his  shutters,  nor  tied  fishing-lines  across  his  door- 
way ; tail-piped  not  his  dog,  nor  sent  his  cat  to  sea  on  a barrel- 
stave  ; put  not  live  crabs  into  his  pocket,  nor  dead  dog-fish  into 
his  well ; yea,  even  when  judgment,  too  long  provoked,  made 
bare  her  red  right  hand,  and  the  lieutenant  vowed  by  his  com- 
mission that  he  would  send  half-a-dozen  of  them  to  the  treadmill, 
they  would  send  up  a deputation  to  “beg  Captain  Willis  to  beg 
the  schoolmistress  to  beg  them  off.”  Eor  between  Willis  and 
that  fair  young  creature  a friendship  had  grown  up,  easily  to  be 
understood.  Willis  was  one  of  those  rare  natures  upon  whose 


STILL  LIFE. 


43 


purity  no  mire  can  cling  ; wlio  pass  through  the  furnace,  and  yet 
not  even  the  smell  of  fire  has  passed  upon  them.  Bred,  almost 
horn,  on  hoard  a smuggling  cutter,  in  the  old  war-times;  then 
hunting,  in  the  old  coast-hlockade  service,  the  smugglers  among 
whom  he  had  heen  trained ; watching  the  slow  horrors  of  the 
Walcheren  ; fighting  under  Collingwood  and  Nelson,  and  many 
another  valiant  Captain ; lounging  away  years  of  temptation  on 
the  West-Indian  station,  as  sailing-master  of  a ship-of-the-line ; 
pensioned  comfortably  now  for  many  a year  in  his  native  town, 
he  had  heen  always  the  same  gentle,  valiant,  righteous  man; 
sober  in  life,  strict  in  duty,  and  simple  in  word  ; a soul  as 
transparent  as  crystal,  and  as  pure.  He  was  the  oracle  of 
Aheralva  now ; and  even  Lieutenant  Brown  would  ask  his 
opinion, — non-commissioned  officer  though  he  was, — in  a tone 
which  was  all  the  more  patronising,  because  he  stood  a little  in 
awe  of  the  old  man. 

But  why,  when  the  hoys  wanted  to  he  begged  off,  was  the 
schoolmistress  to  he  their  advocate  h Because  Grace  Harvey 
exercised,  without  intending  anything  of  the  kind,  an  almost 
mesmeric  influence  on  everyone  in  the  little  town.  Goodness 
rather  than  talent  had  given  her  wisdom,  and  goodness  rather 
than  courage  a power  of  using  that  wisdom,  which,  to  those 
simple,  superstitious  folk,  seemed  altogether  an  inspiration. 
There  was  a mystery  about  her,  too,  which  worked  strongly  on 
the  hearts  of  the  West-country  people.  She  was  supposed  to  he 
at  times  “not  right ;”  and  wandering  intellect  is  with  them,  as 
with  many  primitive  peoples,  an  object  more  of  awe  than  of  pity. 
Her  deep  melancholy  alternated  with  hursts  of  wild  eloquence, 
with  fantastic  fables,  with  entreaties  and  warnings  against  sin, 
full  of  such  pity  and  pathos  that  they  melted,  at  times,  the 
hardest  hearts.  A whole  world  of  strange  tales,  half  false,  half 
true,  had  grown  up  around  her  as  she  grew.  She  was  believed 
to  spend  whole  nights  in  prayer ; to  speak  with  visitor's  from 
the  other  world ; even  to  have  the  power  of  seeing  into  futurity. 
The  intensity  of  her  imagination  gave  rise  to  the  belief  that  she 
had  only  to  will,  and  she  could  see  whom  she  would,  and  all  that 
they  were  doing,  even  across  the  seas ; her  exquisite  sensibility, 
it  was  whispered,  made  her  feel  every  bodily  suffering  she  wit- 
nessed, as  acutely  as  the  sufferer’s  self,  and  in  the  very  limb  in 
which  he  suffered.  Her  deep  melancholy  was  believed  to  be 
caused  by  sonie  dark  fate — by  some  agonizing  sympathy  with 
evil-doers  ; and  it  was  sometimes  said  in  Aberalva, — “ Don’t  do 
that,  for  poor  Grace’s  sake.  She  bears  the  sins  of  all  the  parish.” 

So  it  befell  that  Grace  Harvey  governed,  she  knew  not  how  or 
why,  all  hearts  in  that  wild  simple  fishing-town.  Bough  men, 
fighting  on  the  quay,  shook  hands  at  Grace’s  bidding.  Wives 


44 


STILL  LIFE. 


who  could  not  lure  their  husbands  from  the  beer-shop,  sent 
Grace  in  to  fetch  them  home,  sobered  by  shame : and  woe  to  the 
stranger  who  fancied  that  her  entrance  into  that  noisy  den  gave 
him  a right  to  say  a rough  word  to  the  fair  girl ! The  maidens, 
instead  of  envying  her  beauty,  made  her  the  confidant  of  all 
their  loves  ; for  though  many  a man  would  gladly  have  married 
her,  to  woo  her  was  more  than  any  dared  ; and  Gentleman  Jan 
himself,  the  rightful  bully  of  the  quay,  as  being  the  handsomest 
and  biggest  man  for  many  a mile,  beside  owning  a tidy  trawler 
and  two  good  mackerel-boats,  had  said  openly,  that  if  any  man 
had  a right  to  her,  he  supposed  he  had ; but  that  he  should  as 
soon  think  of  asking  her  to  marry  him,  as  of  asking  the  moon. 

Eut  it  was  in  the  school,  in  the  duty  which  lay  nearest  to  her, 
that  Grace’s  inward  loveliness  shone  most  lovely.  Whatever  dark 
cloud  of  melancholy  lay  upon  her  own  heart,  she  took  care  that 
it  should  never  overshadow  one  of  those  young  innocents,  whom 
she  taught  by  love  and  ruled  by  love,  always  tender,  always 
cheerful,  even  gay  and  playful;  punishing,  when  she  rarely 
punished,  with  tears  and  kisses.  To  make  them  as  happy  as 
she  could  in  a world  where  there  was  nothing  but  temptation, 
and  disappointment,  and  misery;  to  make  them  “ fit  for  heaven,” 
and  then  to  pray  that  they  might  go  thither  as  speedily  as  possible, 
this  had  been  her  work  for  now  seven  years ; and  that  Mani- 
chseism  which  has  driven  darker  and  harder  natures  to  destroy 
young  children,  that  they  might  go  straight  to  bliss,  took  in  her 
the  form  of  outpourings  of  gratitude  (when  the  first  natural 
tears  were  dried),  as  often  as  one  of  her  little  lambs  was  “ de- 
livered out  of  the  miseries  of  this  sinful  world.”  Eut  as  long  as 
they  were  in  the  world,  she  was  their  guardian  angel ; and  there 
was  hardly  a mother  in  Aberalva  who  did  not  confess  her  debt 
to  Grace,  not  merely  for  her  children’s  scholarship,  but  for  their 
characters. 

Frank  Headley  the  curate,  therefore,  had  touched  altogether  the 
wrong  chord  when  he  spoke  of  displacing  Grace.  And  v,rhen, 
that  same  afternoon,  he  sauntered  down  to  the  pier-head,  wearied 
with  his  parish  work,  not  only  did  Tardrew  stump  away  in 
silence  as  soon  as  he  appeared,  but  Captain  Willis’s  face  assumed 
a grave  and  severe  look,  which  was  not  often  to  be  seen  on  it. 

“ Well,  Captain  Willis?”  said  Frank,  solitary  and  sad  ; long- 
ing for  a talk  with  some  one,  and  not  quite  sure  whether  he  was 
welcome. 

“ Well,  Sir?”  and  the  old  man  lifted  his  hat,  and  made  one 
of  his  princely  bows.  “ You  look  tired,  Sir  ; I am  afraid  you’re 
doing  too  much.” 

“ I shall  have  more  to  do,  soon,”  said  the  Curate,  his  eye 
glancing  towards  the  schoolmistress,  who,  disturbed  by  the  noise 


STILL  LIFE.  4 5 

above,  was  walking  slowly  np  the  beach,  with  a child  holding  to 
every  finger,  and  every  fold  of  her  dress. 

Willis  saw  the  direction  of  his  eye,  and  came  at  once  to  the 
point,  in  his  gentle,  straightforward  fashion. 

“ I hear  you  have  thoughts  of  taking  the  school  from  her,  Sir  V9 
“ Why — indeed — I shall  be  very  sorry ; hut  if  she  will  persist 
in  going  to  the  chapel,  I cannot  overlook  the  sin  of  schism.” 

“ She  takes  the  children  to  church  twice  a Sunday,  don’t  she  h 
And  teaches  them  all  that  you  tell  her — ” 

“ Why — yes — I have  taken  the  religious  instruction  almost 
into  my  own  hands  now.” 

Willis  smiled  quietly. 

“You’ll  excuse  an  old  sailor,  Sir;  but  1 think  that’s  more 
than  mortal  man  can  do.  There’s  no  hour  of  the  day  but  what 
she’s  teaching  them  something.  She’s  telling  them  Bible  stories 
now,  I’ll  warrant,  if  you  could  hear  her.” 

Trank  made  no  answer. 

“You  wouldn’t  stop  her  doing  that h Oh,  Sir,”  and  the  old 
man  spoke  with  a quiet  earnestness  which  was  not  without  its 
effect,  “just  look  at  her  now,  like  the  Good  Shepherd  with  His 
lambs  about  His  feet,  and  think  whether  that’s  not  much  too 
pretty  a sight  to  put  an  end  to,  in  a poor  sinful  world  iike  this.” 
“ It  is  my  duty,”  said  Trank,  hardening  himself.  “ It  pains 
me  exceedingly,  Willis  ; — I hope  I need  not  tell  you  that.” 

“ If  I know  aught  of  Mr.  Headley’s  heart  by  his  ways,  you 
needn’t  indeed,  Sir.” 

“ But  I cannot  allow  it. — Her  mother  a class  leader  among 
these  Dissenters,  and  one  of  the  most  active  of  them,  too. — The 
school  next  door  to  her  house.  The  preacher,  of  course,  has 
influence  there,  and  must  have.  How  am  I to  instil  Church 
principles  into  them,  if  he  is  counteracting  me  the  moment  my 
back  is  turned  1 I have  made  up  my  mind,  Willis,  to  do  nothing 
in  a hurry.  Lady-day  is  past,  and  she  must  go  on  till  Mid- 
summer; then  I shall  take  the  school  into  my  own  hands,  and 
teach  them  myself,  for  I can  pay  no  mistress  or  master  : and 
Mr.  St.  Just — ” 

Trank  checked  himself  as  he  was  going  to  speak  the  truth  ; 
namely,  that  his  sleepy  old  absentee  rector,  Lord  Scoutbush’s 
uncle,  would  yawn  and  grumble  at  the  move,  and  wondering 
why  Trank  “ had  not  the  sense  to  leave  ill  alone,”  would  give 
him  no  manner  of  assistance  beyond  his  pittance  of  eighty  pounds 
a-year,  and  five  pounds  at  Christmas  to  spend  on  the  poor. 

“ Excuse  me,  Sir,  I don’t  doubt  that  you’ll  do  your  best  in 
teaching,  as  you  always  do  : but  I tell  you  honestly,  you’ll  get  no 
children  to  teach.” 

“Ho  children ? ” 


46 


STILL  LIFE. 


“ Their  mothers  know  the  worth  of  Grace  too  well,  and  the 
children  too,  Sir ; and  they’ll  go  to  her  all  the  same,  do  what 
you  will ; and  never  a one  will  enter  the  church  door  from  that 
day  forth.” 

“ On  their  own  heads  he  it ! ” said  Trank,  a little  testily ; 
“ hut  I should  not  have  fancied  Miss  Harvey  the  sort  of  person 
to  set  up  herself  in  defiance  of  me.” 

“ The  more  reason,  Sir,  if  you’ll  forgive  me,  for  your  not 
putting  upon  her.” 

“ I do  not  want  to  put  upon  her  or  any  one.  I will  do  every 
thing.  I will — I do — work  day  and  night  for  these  people, 
Mr.  Willis.  I tell  you,  as  I would  my  own  father.  I don’t  think 
I have  another  object  on  earth — if  I have,  I hope  I shall  forget 
it — than  the  parish  : hut  Church  principles  I must  carry  out.” 

“ Well,  Sir,  certainly  no  man  ever  worked  here  as  you  do.  If 
all  had  been  like  you,  Sir,  there  would  not  he  a Dissenter  here 
now ; hut  excuse  me,  Sir,  the  Church  is  a very  good  thing,  and  I 
keep  to  mine,  having  served  under  her  Majesty,  and  her  Majesty’s 
forefathers,  and  learnt  to  obey  orders,  I hope ; hut  don’t  you  think, 
Sir,  you’re  taking  it  as  the  Pharisees  took  the  Sahhath-day  h ” 

“ How  then  l ” 

“ Why,  as  if  man  was  made  for  the  Church,  and  not  the 
Church  for  man.” 

“ That  is  a shrewd  thought,  at  least.  Where  did  you  pick  it 
up  ? ” 

“ ’Tis  none  of  my  own,  Sir ; a hit  of  wisdom  that  my  maid  let 
fall ; and  it  has  stuck  to  me  strangely  ever  since.” 

“ Your  maid  ? ” 

“ Yes,  Grace  there.  I always  call  her.  my  maid ; having  no 
father,  poor  thing,  she  looks  up  to  me  as  one,  pretty  much, — the 
dear  soul.  Oh,  Sir  ! I hope  you’ll  thiuk  over  this  again,  before 
you  do  anything.  It’s  done  in  a day  : hut  years  won’t  undo  it 
again.” 

So  Grace’s  sayings  were  quoted  against  him.  Her  power  was 
formidable  enough,  if  she  dare  use  it.  He  was  silent  awhile,  and 
then — 

“ Do  you  think  she  has  heard  of  this — of  my — ” 

“ Honesty’s  the  best  policy,  Sir  : she  has ; and  that’s  the  truth. 
You  know  how  things  get  round.” 

“ Well ; and  what  did  she  say  1 ” 

aI’ll  tell  you  her  very  words,  Sir;  and  they  were  these,  if 
you’ll  excuse  me.  4 Poor  dear  gentleman,’  says  she,  ‘ if  he  thinks 
chapel-going  so  wrong,  why  does  he  dare  drive  folks  to  chapel  h 
I wonder,  every  time  he  looks  at  that  deep  sea,  he  don’t  remem- 
ber what  the  Lord  said  about  it,  and  those  who  cause  his  little 
ones  to  offend.’  ” 


STILL  LIFE. 


47 


Frank  was  somewhat  awed.  The  thought  was  new ; the  appli- 
cation of  the  text,  as  his  own  scholarship  taught  him,  even  more 
exact  than  Grace  had  fancied. 

“ Then  she  was  not  angry  ? ” 

“ She,  Sir  ! You  couldn’t  anger  her  if  you  tore  her  in  pieces 
with  hot  pincers,  as  they  did  those  old  martyrs  she’s  always 
telling  about.” 

“ Good-hye,  Willis,”  said  Frank,  in  a hopeless  tone  of  voice, 
and  sauntered  to  the  pier-end,  down  the  steps,  and  along  the 
lower  pier-way,  burdened  with  many  thoughts.  He  came  up 
to  the  knot  of  chatting  sailors.  Hot  one  of  them  touched  his 
cap,  or  moved  out  of  the  way  for  him.  The  boat  lay  almost 
across  the  whole  pier-way ; and  he  stopped,  awkwardly  enough, 
for  there  was  not  room  to  get  by. 

“ Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  pass  ? ” asked  he,  meekly 
enough.  But  no  one  stirred. 

66  Why  don’t  you  get  up,  Tom  ? ” asked  one. 

u I be  lame.” 

“ So  be  I.” 

“ The  gentleman  can  step  over  me,  if  he  likes,”  said  big  Jan ; 
a proposition  the  impossibility  whereof  raised  a horse-laugh. 

“ Ain’t  you  ashamed  of  yourselves,  lads  ] ” said  the  severe 
voice  of  Willis,  from  above.  The  men  rose  sulkily  ; and  Frank 
hastened  on,  as  ready  to  cry  as  ever  he  had  been  in  his  life.  Poor 
fellow  ! he  had  been  labouring  among  these  people  for  now 
twelve  months,  as  no  man  had  ever  laboured  before,  and  he  felt 
that  he  had  not  won  the  confidence  of  a single  human  being, — 
not  even  of  the  old  women,  who  took  his  teaching  for  the  sake  of 
his  charity,  and  who  scented  popery,  all  the  while,  in  words  in 
which  there  was  no  popery,  and  in  doctrines  which  were  just  the 
same,  on  the  whole,  as  those  of  the  dissenting  preacher,  simply 
because  he  would  sprinkle  among  them  certain  words  and  phrases 
which  had  become  “ suspect,”  as  party  badges.  His  church  was 
all  but  empty ; the  general  excuse  was,  that  it  was  a mile  from 
the  town  : but  Frank  knew  that  that  was  not  the  true  reason ; 
that  all  the  parish  had  got  it  into  their  heads  that  he  had  a lean- 
ing to  popery ; that  he  was  going  over  to  Eome ; that  he  was 
probably  a J esuit  in  disguise. 

How,  be  it  always  remembered,  Frank  Headley  was  a good 
man,  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  He  had  nothing,  save  the  out- 
side, in  common  with  those  undesirable  coxcombs,  who  have  not 
been  bred  by  the  High  Church  movement,  but  have  taken  refuge 
in  its  cracks,  as  they  would  have  done  forty  years  ago  in  those  of 
the  Evangelical, — youths  who  hide  their  crass  ignorance  and 
dulness  under  the  cloak  of  Church  infallibility,  and  having 
neither  wit,  manners,  learning,  humanity,  or  any  other  dignity 


48 


STILL  LIFE. 


whereon  to  stand,  talk  loud,  pour  pis  alter , about  the  dignity  of 
the  priesthood.  Such  men  Frank  had  met  at  neighbouring 
clerical  meetings,  overbearing  and  out-talking  the  elder  and  the 
wiser  members ; and  finding  that  he  got  no  good  from  them, 
had  withdrawn  into  his  parish-work,  to  eat  his  own  heart,  like 
Bellerophon  of  old.  For  Frank  was  a gentleman,  and  a Chris- 
tian, if  ever  one  there  was.  Delicate  in  person,  all  but  consump- 
tive ; graceful  and  refined  in  all  his  works  and  ways ; a scholar, 
elegant  rather  than  deep,  yet  a scholar  still ; full  of  all  love  for 
painting,  architecture,  and  poetry,  he  had  come  down  to  bury 
himself  in  this  remote  curacy,  in  the  honest  desire  of  doing  good. 
He  had  been  a curate  in  a fashionable  London  church  : but  find- 
ing the  atmosphere  thereof  not  over  wholesome  to  his  soul,  he  had 
had  the  courage  to  throw  off  St.  Hepomuc’s,  its  brotherhoods, 
sisterhoods,  and  all  its  gorgeous  and  highly-organized  appliances 
for  enabling  five  thousand  rich  to  take  tolerable  care  of  five 
hundred  poor  : and  had  fled  from  “ the  holy  virgins  ” (as  certain 
old  ladies,  who  do  twice  their  work  with  half  their  noise,  call 
them)  into  the  wilderness  of  Bethnal  Green.  But  six  months’ 
gallant  work  there,  with  gallant  men,  (for  there  are  High  Church- 
men there  who  are  an  honour  to  England,)  brought  him  to  death’s 
door.  The  doctors  commanded  some  soft  western  air.  Frank, 
as  chivalrous  as  a knight-errant  of  old,  would  fain  have  died  at 
his  post,  but  his  mother  interfered ; and  he  could  do  no  less  than 
obey  her.  So  he  had  taken  this  remote  west  country  curacy ; all 
the  more  willingly  because  he  knew  that  nine-tenths  of  the 
people  were  Dissenters.  To  recover  that  place  to  the  Church 
would  be  something  worth  living  for.  So  he  had  come,  and 
laboured  late  and  early ; and  behold,  he  had  failed  utterly ; and 
seemed  further  than  ever  from  success.  He  had  opened,  too 
hastily,  a crusade  against  the  Dissenters,  and  denounced  where 
he  should  have  conciliated.  He  had  overlooked — indeed  he 
hardly  knew — the  sad  truth,  that  the  mere  fact  of  his  being  a 
clergyman  was  no  passport  to  the  hearts  of  his  people.  For  the 
curate  who  preceded  him  had  been  an  old  man,  mean,  ignorant, 
incapable,  remaining  there  simply  because  nobody  else  would 
have  him,  and  given  to  brandy-and-water  as  much  as  his  flock. 
The  rector  for  the  last  fifteen  years,  Lord  Scoutbush’s  uncle,  was 
a cypher.  The  rector  before  him  had  notoriously  earned  the  living 
by  a marriage  with  a lady  who  stood  in  some  questionable  relation 
to  Lord  Scoutbush’s  father,  and  who  had  never  had  a thought 
above  his  dinner  and  his  tithes ; and  all  that  the  Aberalva  fisher- 
men knew  of  God  or  righteousness,  they  had  learnt  from  the  sou- 
disant  disciples  of  J ohn  Wesley.  So  Frank  Headley  had  to  make 
up,  at  starting,  the  arrears  of  half-a-century  of  base  neglect ; but 
instead  of  doing  so,  he  had  contrived  to  awaken  against  himself 


STILL  LIFE. 


49 


that  dogged  hatred  of  popery  which  lies  inarticulate  and  con- 
fused, hut  deep  and  firm,  in  the  heart  of  the  English  people. 
Poor  fellow ! if  he  made  a mistake,  he  suffered  for  it.  There 
was  hardly  a sadder  soul  than  poor  Prank,  as  he  went  listlessly 
up  the  village  street  that  afternoon,  to  his  lodging  at  Captain 
Willis’s,  which  he  had  taken  because  he  preferred  living  in 
the  village  itself  to  occupying  the  comfortable  rectory  a mile 
out  of  town. 

However  we  cannot  set  him  straight ; — after  all,  every  man 
must  perform  that  office  for  nimself.  So  the  best  thing  we  can 
do,  as  w^e  landed,  naturally,  at  the  pier-head,  is  to  walk  up-street 
after  him,  and  see  what  sort  of  a place  Aberalva  is. 

Eeneath  us,  to  the  left  hand,  is  the  quay-pool,  now  lying  dry, 
in  which  a dozen  trawlers  are  lopping  over  on  their  sides,  their 
red  sails  drying  in  the  sun,  the  tails  of  the  trawls  hauled  up  to 
the  topmast  heads ; while  the  more  handy  of  their  owners  are 
getting  on  board  by  ladders,  to  pack  away  the  said  red  sails  ; for 
it  will  blow  to  night.  In  the  long  furrows  which  their  keels 
have  left,  and  in  the  shallow  muddy  pools,  lie  innumerable  frag- 
ments of  exenterated  maids  (not  human  ones,  pitiful  reader,  but 
belonging  to  the  order  Pisces,  and  the  family  Eaia),  and  some 
twenty  non-exenterated  ray-dogs  and  picked  dogs  (Anglice,  dog- 
fish), together  with  a fine  basking  shark,  at  least  nine  feet  long, 
out  of  which  the  kneeling  Mr.  George  Thomas,  clothed  in  pilot 
cloth  patches  of  every  hue,  bright  scarlet,  blue,  and  brown  (not  to 
mention  a large  square  of  white  canvas  which  has  been  let  into 
that  part  of  his  trousers  which  is  now  uppermost),  is  dissecting 
the  liver,  for  the  purpose  of  greasing  his  “ sheaves  ” with  the 
fragrant  oil  thereof.  The  pools  in  general  are  bedded  with  black 
mud,  and  creamed  over  with  oily  flakes  which  may  proceed  from 
the  tar  on  the  vessels’  sides,  and  may  also  from  “ decomposing 
animal  matter,”  as  we  euphemize  it  now-a-days.  The  hot  pebbles, 
at  high  tide  mark, — crowned  with  a long  black  row  of  herring  and 
mackerel  boats,  laid  up  in  ordinary  for  the  present, — are  beauti- 
fully variegated  with  mackerel’s  heads,  gurnets’  fins,  old  hag,  lob- 
worm, and  mussel-baits,  and  the  inwards  of  a whole  ichthyo- 
logical museum;  save  at  one  spot  where  the  Cloaca  maxima  and 
Port  Esquiline  of  Aberalva  town  (small  enough,  considering  the 
place  holds  fifteen  hundred  souls)  murmurs  from  beneath  a grey 
stone  arch  toward  the  sea,  not  unfraught  with  dead  rats  and  cats, 
who,  their  ancient  feud  forgotten,  combine  lovingly  at  last  in 
increasing  the  health  of  the  blue-trousered  urchins  who  are  sail- 
ing upon  that  Acherontic  stream  bits  of  board  with  a feather 
stuck  in  it,  or  of  their  tiny  sisters,  who  are  dancing  about  in  the 
dirtiest  pool  among  the  trawlers  in  a way  which  (if  your  respect- 
able black  coat  be  seen  upon  the  pier)  will  elicit  from  one  of  the 

e 


50 


STILL  LIFE. 


balconied  windows  above,  decked  with  reeking  shirts  and  linen, 
some  such  shriek  as — 

“ Patience  Penbertliy,  Patience  Penberthy — a ! You  nasty, 
dirty,  little  ondecent  hussy — a ! What  be  playing  in  the  quay- 
pool  for — a ! A pulling  up  your  pesticoats  before  the  quality — a !” 
Each  exclamation  being  followed  with  that  droning  grunt,  with 
which  the  West-country  folk,  after  having  screamed  their  lungs 
empty  through  their  noses,  recover  their  breath  for  a fresh  burst. 

Never  mind  ; it  is  no  nosegay,  certainly,  as  a whole  : but  did 
you  ever  see  sturdier,  rosier,  nobler-looking  children, — rounder 
faces,  raven  hair,  bright  grey  eyes,  full  of  fun  and  tenderness  ? 
As  fo*:  the  dirt,  that  cannot  harm  them ; poor  people’s  children 
must  be  dirty — why  not  ? Look  on  fifty  yards  to  the  left. 
Between  two  ridges  of  high  pebble  bank,  some  twenty  yards 
apart,  comes  Alva  river  rushing  to  the  sea.  On  the  opposite 
ridge,  a low  white  house,  with  three  or  four  white  canvas-covered 
boats,  and  a flag-staff  with  sloping  cross-yard,  betokens  the  coast- 
guard station.  Beyond  it  rise  black  jagged  cliffs  ; mile  after  mile 
of  iron-bound  wall : and  here  and  there,  at  the  glens’  mouths, 
great  banks  and  denes  of  shifting  sand.  In  front  of  it,  upon  the 
beach,  are  half-a-dozen  great  green  and  grey  heaps  of  Welsh  lime- 
stone ; behind  it,  at  the  cliff  foot,  is  the  lime-kiln,  with  its  white 
dusty  heaps,  and  brown  dusty  men,  its  quivering  mirage  of  hot 
air,  its  strings  of  patient  hay-nibbling  donkeys,  which  look  as  if 
they  had  just  awakened  out  of  a flour  bin.  Above,  a green  down 
stretches  up  to  bright  yellow  furze-crofts  far  aloft.  Behind,  a 
reedy  marsh,  covered  with  red  cattle,  paves  the  valley  till  it 
closes  in ; the  steep  sides  of  the  hills  are  clothed  in  oak  and  ash 
covert,  in  which,  three  months  ago,  you  could  have  shot  more 
cocks  in  one  day  than  you  w^ould  in  Berkshire  in  a year.  Pleasant 
little  glimpses  there  are,  too,  of  grey  stone  farm-houses,  nestling 
among  sycamore  and  beech ; bright-green  meadows,  alder-fringed ; 
squares  of  rich  red  fallow-field,  parted  by  lines  of  golden  furze ; 
all  cut  out  with  a peculiar  blackness,  and  clearness,  soft  and  tender 
withal,  which  betokens  a climate  surcharged  with  rain.  Only, 
in  the  very  bosom  of  the  valley,  a soft  mist  hangs,  increasing  the 
sense  of  distance,  and  softening  back  one  hill  and  wood  behind 
another,  till  the  great  brown  moor  which  backs  it  all  seems  to 
rise  out  of  the  empty  air.  Eor  a thousand  feet  it  ranges  up,  in 
rude  sheets  of  brown  heather,  and  grey  cairns  and  screes  of  granite, 
all  sharp  and  black-edged  against  the  pale  blue  sky;  and  all 
suddenly  cut  off  above  by  one  long  horizontal  line  of  dark  grey 
cloud,  which  seems  to  hang  there  motionless,  and  yet  is  growing 
to  windward,  and  dying  to  leeward,  for  ever  rushing  out  of  the 
invisible  into  sight,  and  into  the  invisible  again,  at  railroad  speed. 
Out  of  nothin  g the  moor  rises,  and  into  nothing  it  ascends, — a 


STILL  LIFE. 


51 


great  dark  phantom  between  earth  and  sky,  boding  rain  and 
howling  tempest,  and  perhaps  fearful  wreck — for  the  groundswell 
moans  and  thunders  on  the  beach  behind  us,  louder  and  louder 
every  moment. 

Let  us  go  on,  and  up  the  street,  after  we  have  scrambled 
through  the  usual  labyrinth  of  timber-baulks,  rusty  anchors, 
boats  which  have  been  dragged,  for  the  purpose  of  mending  and 
tarring,  into  the  very  middle  of  the  road,  and  old  spars  stowed 
under  walls,  in  the  vain  hope  that  they  may  be  of  some  use  for 
something  some  day,  and  have  stood  the  stares  and  welcomes  of 
the  lazy  giants  who  are  sitting  about  upon  them,  black-locked, 
black-bearded,  with  ruddy,  wholesome  faces,  and  eyes  as  bright 
as  diamonds ; men  who  are  on  their  own  ground,  and  know  it ; 
who  will  not  touch  their  caps  to  you,  or  pull  the  short  black 
pipe  from  between  their  lips  as  you  pass,  but  expect  you  to  prove 
yourself  a gentleman,  by  speaking  respectfully  to  them  ; which, 
if  you  do,  you  will  find  them  as  hearty,  intelligent,  brave  fellows 
as  ever  walked  this  earth,  capable  of  anything,  from  working  the 
naval-brigade  guns  at  Sevastopol,  down  to  running  up  to  * * * 
a hundred  miles  in  a cockleshell  lugger,  to  forestall  the  early 
mackarel  market.  God  be  with  you,  my  brave  lads,  and  with 
your  children  after  you;  for  as  long  as  you  are  what  I have 
known  you,  Old  England  will  rule  the  seas,  and  many  a land 
beside ! 

But  in  going  up  Aberalva-street,  you  remark  several  things  ; 
first,  that  the  houses  were  all  whitewashed  yesterday,  except 
where  the  snowy  white  is  picked  out  by  buttresses  of  pink  and 
blue ; next,  that  they  all  have  bright  green  palings  in  front,  and 
bright  green  window-sills  and  frames  ; next,  that  they  are  all 
roofed  with  shining  grey  slate,  and  the  space  between  the  window 
and  the  pales  flagged  with  the  same ; next,  that  where  such 
space  is  not  flagged,  it  is  full  of  flowers  and  shrubs  which  stand 
the  winter  only  in  our  greenhouses.  The  fuchsias  are  ten  feet 
high,  laden  with  ripe  purple  berries  running  over  (for  there  are 
no  birds  to  pick  them  off) ; and  there  in  the  front  of  the  coast- 
guard lieutenant’s  house,  is  Cobaea  scandens,  covered  with  purple 
claret-glasses,  as  it  has  been  ever  since  Christmas  : for  Aberalva 
knows  no  winter  : and  there  are  grown-up  men  in  it  who  never 
put  on  a skate,  or  made  a snow-ball  in  their  lives.  A most 
cleanly,  bright-coloured,  foreign-looking  street,  is  that  long  strag- 
gling one  which  runs  up  the  hill  towards  Penal va  Court : only 
remark,  that  this  cleanliness  is  gained  by  making  the  gutter  in 
the  middle  street  the  common  sewer  of  the  town,  and  tread  clear 
of  cabbage-leaves,  pilchard  bones,  et  id  genus  omne.  Eor  Aberalva 
is  like  Paris  (if  the  answer  of  a celebrated  sanitary  reformer  to 
the  emperor  be  truly  reported),  “fair  without  but  foul  within.” 

E 2 


52 


STILL  LIFE. 


However,  the  wind  is  blowing  dull  and  hollow  from  south- 
west ; the  clouds  are  rolling  faster  and  faster  up  from  the  Atlantic;' 
the  sky  to  westward  is  brassy  green;  the  glass  is  falling  fast ; and 
there  will  be  wind  and  rain  enough  to-night  to  sweep  even  Abe- 
ralva  clean  for  the  next  week. 

Grace  Harvey  sees  the  coming  storm,  as  she  goes  slowly  home- 
wards, dismissing  her  little  flock ; and  she  lingers  long  and  sadly 
outside  her  cottage  door,  looking  out  over  the  fast  blackening 
sea,  and  listening  to  the  hollow  thunder  of  the  groundswell, 
against  the  back  of  the  point  which  shelters  Aberalva  Cove. 

Far  away  on  the  horizon,  the  masts  of  stately  ships  stand  out 
against  the  sky,  driving  fast  to  the  eastward  with  shortened  sail. 
They,  too,  know  what  is  coming ; and  Grace  prays  for  them  as 
she  stands,  in  her  wild  way,  with  half  outspoken  words. 

“ All  those  gallant  ships,  dear  Lord ! and  so  many  beautiful 
men  in  them,  and  so  few  of  them  ready  to  die ; and  all  those 
gallant  soldiers  going  to  the  war ; — Lord,  wilt  thou  not  have 
mercy  ? Spare  them  for  a little  time  before — . Is  not  that 
cruel,  man-devouring  sea  full  enough,  Lord;  and  brave  men’s 
bones  enough,  strewn  up  and  down  all  rocks  and  sands  ? And 
is  not  that  dark  place  full  enough,  0 Lord,  of  poor  souls  cut  off 
in  a moment,  as  my  two  were  ? Oh,  not  to-night,  dear  Lord  ! 
Do  not  call  any  one  to-night — give  them  a day  more,  one  chance 
more,  poor  fellows — they  have  had  so  few,  and  so  many  tempta- 
tions, and,  perhaps,  no  schooling.  They  go  to  sea  so  early,  and 
young  things  will  be  young  things,  Lord.  Spare  them  but  one 
night  more — and  yet  He  did  not  spare  my  two — they  had  no 
time  to  repent,  and  have  no  time  for  ever,  evermore  ! ” 

And  she  stands  looking  out  over  the  sea ; but  she  has  lost 
sight  of  everything,  save  her  own  sad  imaginations.  Her  eyes 
open  wider  and  wider,  as  if  before  some  unseen  horror ; the  eye- 
brows contract  upwards ; the  cheeks  sharpen  ; the  mouth  parts*; 
the  lips  draw  back,  showing  the  white  teeth,  as  if  in  intensest 
agony.  Thus  she  stands  long,  motionless,  awe-frozen,  save  when 
a shudder  runs  through  every  limb,  with  such  a countenance  as 
that  “ fair  terror”  of  which  Shelley  sang — 

“ Its  horror  and  its  beauty  are  divine; 

Upon  its  lips  and  eyelids  seem  to  lie 
Loveliness  like  a shadow,  from  which  shine, 

Fiery  and  lucid,  struggling-underneath, 

The  agonies  of  anguish  and  of  death.  ” 

Her  mother  comes  out  from  the  cottage  door  behind,  and  lays 
her  hand  upon  the  girl’s  shoulder.  The  spell  is  'broken ; and 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  Grace  bursts  into  violent  weeping. 

“ What  are  you  doing,  my  poor  child,  here,  in  the  cold  night 
air?” 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE.  53 

“ My  two,  mother,  my  two  ! ” said  she ; “ and  all  the  p?or 
souls  at  sea  to- night !” 

“You  mustn't  think  of  it.  Haven’t  I told  you  not  to  think 
of  it  ? One  would  lose  one’s  wits  if  one  did  too  often.” 

“If  it  is  all  true,  mother,  what  else  is  there  worth  thinking 
of  in  heaven  or  earth  ?” 

And  Grace  goes  in  with  a dull,  heavy  look  of  utter  exhaustion, 
bodily  and  mental,  and  quietly  sets  the  things  for  supper,  and 
goes  about  her  cottage  work,  as  one  who  bears  a heavy  chain, 
but  has  borne  it  too  long  to  let  it  hinder  the  daily  drudgery  of 
life. 

Grace  had  reason  to  pray  at  least,  for  the  soldiers  who  were 
going  to  the  war.  For  as  she  prayed,  the  Orinoco,  Eipon,  and 
Manilla,  were  steaming  down  Southampton  Water,  with  the 
Guards  on  board  ; and  but  that  morning  little  Lord  Scoutbush, 
left  behind  at  the  depot,  had  bid  farewell  to  his  best  friend, 
opposite  Buckingham  Palace,  while  the  bearskins  were  on  the 
bayonet-points,  with — 

“ Well,  old  fellow,  you  have  the  fun,  after  all,  and  I the  work;” 
and  had  been  answered  with — 

“Fun?  there  will  be  no  fighting;  and  I shall  only  have  lost 
my  season  in  town.” 

Was  there,  then,  no  man  among  them  that  day,  who 

“ As  the  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 

Heard  in  the  wild  March  morning  the  angels  call  his  soul  ?” 

* * * * * 

Verily  they  are  gone  down  to  Hades,  even  many  stalwart  souls 
of  heroes. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 

Pen alva  Court,  about  half  a mile  from  the  quay,  is  “ like  a 
house  in  a story;” — a house  of  seven  gables,  and  those  very 
shaky  ones ; a house  of  useless  long  passages,  useless  turrets,  vast 
lumber  attics  where  maids  see  ghosts,  lofty  garden  and  yard  walls 
of  grey  stone,  round  which  the  wind  and  rain  are  lashing  through 
the  dreary  darkness ; low  oak-ribbed  ceilings  ; windows  which 
once  were  mullioned  with  stone,  but  now  with  wood  painted 
white ; walls  which  were  once  oak-wainscot,  but  have  been 
painted  like  the  mullions,  to  the  disgust  of  Elsley  Vavasour, 
poet,  its  occupant  in  March,  1854,  who  forgot  that,  while  the 
oak  was  left  dark,  no  man  could  have  seen  to  read  in  the  rooms 
a yard  from  the  window. 


64 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


lie  lias,  however,  little  reason  to  complain  of  the  one  drawing- 
room, where  he  and  his  wife  are  sitting,  so  pleasant  has  she  made 
it  look,  in  spite  of  the  plainness  of  the  furniture.  A bright  log- 
fire  is  burning  on  the  hearth.  There  are  a few  good  hooks  too, 
and  a few  handsome  prints ; while  some  really  valuable  knick- 
knacks  are  set  out,  with  pardonable  ostentation,  on  a little  table 
covered  with  crimson  velvet.  It  is  only  cotton  velvet,  if  you 
look  close  at  it ; but  the  things  are  pretty  enough  to  catch  the 
eye  of  all  visitors ; and  Mrs.  Heale,  the  Doctor’s  wife  (who  always 
calls  Mrs.  Vavasour  “my  lady,”  though  she  does  not  love  her), 
and  Mrs.  Trebooze,  of  Trebooze,  always  finger  them  over  when 
they  have  any  opportunity,  and  whisper  to  each  other,  half  con- 
temptuously,— “ Ah,  poor  thing  ! there’s  a sign  that  she  has 
.seen  better  days.” 

And  better  days,  in  one  sense,  Mrs.  Vavasour  has  seen.  I am 
afraid,  indeed,  that  she  has  more  than  once  regretted  the  morning 
when  she  ran  away  in  a hack-cab  from  her  brother  Lord  Scout- 
bush’s  house  in  Eaton  Square,  to  be  married  to  Elsley  Vavasour, 
the  gifted  author  of  “ A Soul’s  Agonies,  and  other  Poems.”  He 
was  a lion  then,  with  foolish  women  running  after  him,  and 
turning  his  head  once  and  for  all ; and  Lucia  St.  Just  was  a wild 
Dish  girl,  new  to  London  society,  all  feeling  and  romance,  and 
literally  all ; for  there  was  little  real  intellect  underlying  her 
passionate  sensibility.  So  when  the  sensibility  burnt  itself  out, 
as  it  generally  does ; and  when  children,  and  the  weak  health 
which  comes  with  them,  and  the  cares  of  a household,  and  money 
difficulties  were  absorbing  her  little  powers,  Elsley  Vavasour 
began  to  fancy  that  his  wife  was  a very  commonplace  person, 
who  was  fast  losing  even  her  good  looks  and  her  good  temper. 
So,  on  the  whole,  they  were  not  happy.  Elsley  was  an  affec- 
tionate man,  and  honourable  to  a fantastic  nicety ; but  he  was 
vain,  capricious,  over-sensitive,  craving  for  admiration  and  dis- 
tinction ; and  it  was  not  enough  for  him  that  his  wife  loved 
him,  bore  him  children,  kept  his  accounts,  mended  and  moiled 
all  day  long  for  him  and  his ; he  wanted  her  to  act  the  public 
for  him  exactly  when  he  was  hungry  for  praise ; and  that  not 
the  actual,  but  an  altogether  ideal,  public  ; to  worship  him  as  a 
deity,  “live  for  him  and  him  alone,”  “ realize”  his  poetic  dreams 
of  marriage  bliss,  and  talk  sentiment  with  him,  or  listen  to  him 
talking  sentiment  to  her,  when  she  would  much  sooner  be  safe  in 
bed  burying  all  {he  petty  cares  of  the  day,  and  the  pain  in  her 
back  too,  poor  thing  ! in  sound  sleep ; and  so  it  befell  that  they 
often  quarrelled  and  wrangled,  and  that  they  were  quarrelling 
and  wrangling  this  very  night. 

Who  cares  to  know  how  it  began  ? Who  cares  to  hear  how  it 
went  on, — the  stupid,  aimless  skirmish  of  bitter  words,  between 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


55 


two  people  who  had  forgotten  themselves  ] I believe  it  began 
with  Elsley’s  being  vexed  at  her  springing  up  two  or  three 
times,  fancying  that  she  heard  the  children  cry,  while  he  wanted 
to  be  quiet,  and  sentimentalize  over  the  rearing  of  the  wind 
outside.  Then— she  thought  of  nothing  but  those  children. 
Why  did  she  not  take  a book  and  occupy  her  mind  ] To  which 
she  had  her  pert,  though  just  answer,  about  her  mind  having 
quite  enough  to  do  to  keep  clothes  on  the  children’s  backs,  and 
so  forth, — let  wTho  list  imagine  the  miserable  little  squabble ; — 
till  she  says, — “ I know  what  has  put  you  out  so  to-night; 
nothing  but  the  news  of  my  sisters  coming.”  He  answers, — 
“ That  her  sister  is  as  little  to  him  as  to  any  man  ; as  welcome  to 
come  now  as  she  has  been  to  stay  awray  these  three  years.” 

“Ah,  it’s  very  well  to  say  that ; but  you  have  been  a different 
person  ever  since  that  letter  came.”  And  so  she  torments  him  into 
an  angry  self-justification  (which  she  takes  triumphantly  as  a 
confession)  that  “it  is  very  disagreeable  to  have  his  thoughts 
broken  in  on  by  one  who  has  no  sympathy  wdth  him  and  his 
pursuits—  and  who — ” and  at  that  point  he  wisely  stops  short, 
for  he  was  going  to  throw  down  a very  ugly  gage  of  battle. 
Thrown  down  or  not,  Lucia  snatches  at  it. 

“ Ah,  I understand  ; poor  Yalentia  ! You  always  hated  her.” 
“I  did  not : but  she  is  so  brusque,  and  excited,  and — ” 

“ Be  so  kind  as  not  to  abuse  my  family.  You  may  say  what 
you  will  of  me ; but — ” 

“ And  what  have  your  family  done  for  me,  pray  ] ” 

“Why,  considering  that  we  are  now  living  rent-free  in  my 
brother’s  house,  and — ” She  stops  in  her  turn;  for  her  pride 
and  her  prudence  also  will  not  let  her  tell  him  that  Yalentia  has 
been  clothing  her  and  the  children  for  the  last  three  years.  He 
is  just  the  man  to  forbid  her  on  the  spot  to  receive  any  more 
presents,  and  to  sacrifice  her  comfort  to  his  own  pride.  But 
what  she  has  said  is  quite  enough  to  bring  out  a very  angry 
answer,  which  she  expecting,  nips  in  the  bud  by — 

“ Bor  goodness’  sake,  don’t  speak  so  loud  ; I don’t  w^ant  the 
servants  to  hear.” 

“I  am  not  speaking  loud  ” — (he  has  not  yet  opened  his  lips). 
“ That  is  your  old  trick  to  prevent  my  defending  myself,  wThile 
you  are  driving  one  mad.  How  dare  you  taunt  me  with  being  a 
pensioner  on  your  brother’s  bounty  1 I’ll  go  up  to  town  again 
and  take  lodgings  there.  I need  not  be  beholden  to  any  aristo- 
crat of  them  all.  I have  my  own  station  in  the  real  world, — the 
world  of  intellect ; I have  my  own  friends  ; I have  made  myself 
a name  without  his  help ; and  I can  live  without  his  help,  he 
shall  find  ! ” 

“Which  name  were  you  speaking  of]”  rejoins  she,  looking 


56 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


up  at  him,  with  all  her  native  Irish  humour  flashing  up  for  a 
moment  in  her  naughty  eyes.  The  next  minute  she  would  have 
given  her  hand  not  to  have  said  it ; for,  with  a very  terrible 
word,  Elsley  springs  to  his  feet  and  dashes  out  of  the  room. 

She  hears  him  catch  up  his  hat  and  cloak,  and  hurry  out  into 
the  rain,  slamming  the  door  behind  him.  She  springs  up  to  call 
him  back,  but  he  is  gone  ; — and  she  dashes  herself  on  the  floor, 
and  bursts  into  an  agony  of  weeping  over  44  young  bliss  never  to 
return”  h Hot  in  the  least.  Her  principal  fear  is,  lest  he  should 
catch  cold  in  the  rain.  She  takes  up  her  work  again,  and  stitches 
away  in  the  comfortable  certainty  that  in  half  an  hour  she  will 
have  recovered  her  temper,  and  he  also ; that  they  will  pass  a 
sulky  night ; and  to-morrow,  by  about  mid-day,  without  expla- 
nation or  formal  reconciliation,  have  become  as  good  friends  as 
ever.  44  Perhaps,”  says  she  to  herself,  with  a woman’s  sense  cf 
power,  44  if  he  be  very  much  ashamed  and  very  wet,  111  pity  him 
and  make  friends  to-night.” 

Miserable  enough  are  these  little  squabbles.  Why  will  two 
people,  who  have  sworn  to  love  and  cherish  each  other  utterly, 
and  who,  on  the  whole,  do  what  they  have  sworn,  behave  to  each 
other  as  they  dare  for  very  shame  behave  to  no  one  else  ? Is  it 
that,  as  every  beautiful  thing  has  its  hideous  antitype,  this  mutual 
shamelessness  is  the  devil’s  ape  of  mutual  confidence  ? Perhaps 
it  cannot  be  otherwise  with  beings  compact  of  good  and  evil. 
When  the  veil  of  reserve  is  withdrawn  from  between  two  souls, 
it  must  be  withdrawn  for  evil,  as  for  good,  till  the  two  natures, 
which  ought  to  seek  rest,  each  in  the  other’s  inmost  depths,  may 
at  last  spring  apart,  confronting  each  other  recklessly  with, — 
44  There,  you  see  me  as  I am  ; you  know  the  worst  of  me,  and  I 
of  you  ; take  me  as  you  find  me — what  care  I V' 

Elsley  and  Lucia  have  not  yet  arrived  at  that  terrible  crisis ; 
though  they  are  on  the  path  toward  it, — the  path  of  little  care- 
lessnesses, rudenesses,  ungoverned  words  and  tempers,  and,  worst 
of  all,  of  that  half-confidence,  which  is  certain  to  avenge  itself  by 
irritation  and  quarrelling  ; for  if  two  married  people  will  not  tell 
each  other  in  love  what  they  ought,  they  will  be  sure  to  tell  each 
other  in  anger  what  they  ought  not.  It  is  plain  enough  already 
that  Elsley  has  his  weak  point,  which  must  not  be  touched ; 
something  about  44  a name,”  which  Lucia  is  to  be  expected  to 
ignore, — as  if  anything  which  really  exists  could  be  ignored 
while  twc  people  live  together  night  and  day,  for  better  for 
worse.  TiJ  the  thorn  is  out,  the  wound  will  not  heal ; and  till 
the  matter  (whatever  it  may  be)  is  set  right,  by  confession  and 
absolution,  there  will  be  no  peace  for  them,  for  they  are  living  in 
a lie  ; and,  unless  it  be  a very  little  one  indeed,  better,  perhaps, 
that  they  should  go  on  to  that  terrible  crisis  of  open  defiance. 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


57 


It  may  end  in  disgust,  hatred,  madness  ; but  it  may,  too,  end  in 
each  falling  again  upon  the  other’s  bosom,  and  sobbing  out 
through  holy  tears, — “ Yes,  you  do  know  the  worst  of  me,  and 
yet  you  love  me  still.  This  is  happiness,  to  find  oneself  most 
loved  when  one  most  hates  oneself ! God,  help  us  to  confess 
our  sins  to  Thee,  as  we  have  done  to  each  other,  and  to  begin 
life  again  like  little  children,  struggling  hand  in  hand  out  of 
this  lowest  pit,  up  the  steep  path  which  leads  to  life,  and  strength, 
and  peace.” 

Heaven  grant  that  it  may  so  end  ! But  now  Elsley  has  gone 
raging  out  into  the  raging  darkness ; trying  to  prove  himself  to 
himself  the  most  injured  of  men,  and  to  hate  his  wife  as  much 
as  possible  : though  the  fool  knows  the  whole  time  that  he  loves 
her  better  than  anything  on  earth,  even  than  that  “ fame,”  on 
which  he  tries  to  fatten  his  lean  soul,  snapping  greedily  at  every 
scrap  which  falls  in  his  way,  and,  in  default,  snapping  at  every- 
body and  everything  else.  And  little  comfort  it  gives  him. 
Why  should  it  h What  comfort,  save  in  being  wise  and  strong  ? 
And  is  he  the  wiser  or  stronger  for  being  told  by  a reviewer  that 
he  has  written  line  words,  or  has  failed  in  writing  them ; or  to 
have  silly  women  writing  to  ask  for  his  autograph,  or  for  leave 
to  set  his  songs  to  music  ? Hay, — shocking  as  the  question 

may  seem, — is  he  the  wiser  and  stronger  man  for  being  a poet 
at  all,  and  a genius  ? — provided,  of  course,  that  the  word  genius 
is  used  in  its  modern  meaning,  of  a person  who  can  say  prettier 
things  than  his  neighbours.  I think  not.  Be  it  as  it  may,  away 
goes  the  poor  genius ; his  long  cloak,  picturesque  enough  in 
calm  weather,  fluttering  about  uncomfortably  enough,  while  the 
rain  washes  his  long  curls  into  swabs  ; out  through  the  old 
garden,  between  storm-swept  laurels,  beneath  dark  groaning 
pines,  and  through  a door  in  the  wall  which  opens  into  the  lane. 

The  lane  leads  downward,  on  the  right,  into  the  village.  He 
is  in  no  temper  to  meet  his  fellow-creatures, — even  to  see  the 
comfortable  gleam  through  their  windows,  as  the  sailors  cose 
round  the  lire  with  wife  and  child  ; so  he  turns  to  the  left,  up 
the  deep  stone-banked  lane,  which  leads  towards  the  cliff,  dark 
now  as  pitch,  for  it  is  overhung,  right  and  left,  with  deep 
oak-wood. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  proceed,  though,  for  the  wind  pours 
down  the  lane  as  through  a funnel,  and  the  road  is  of  slippery 
bare  slate,  worn  here  and  there  into  puddles  of  greasy  clay,  and 
Elsley  slips  back  half  of  every  step,  while  his  wrath,  as  he  tires, 
oozes  out  of  his  heels.  Moreover,  those  dark  trees  above  him, 
tossing  their  heads  impatiently  against  the  scarcely  less  dark 
sky,  strike  an  awe  into  him, — a sense  of  loneliness,  almost  of 
fear.  An  uncanny,  bad  night  it  is ; and  he  is  out  on  a bad 


58 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


errand  ; and  lie  knows  it,  and  wishes  that  he  were  home  again. 
He  does  not  believe,  of  course,  in  those  “ spirits  of  the  storm,” 
about  whom  he  has  so  often  written,  any  more  than  he  does  in 
a great  deal  of  his  fine  imagery ; but  still,  in  such  characters  as 
his,  the  sympathy  between  the  moods  of  nature  and  those  of 
the  mind  is  most  real  and  important ; and  Dame  Nature’s 
equinoctial  night- wrath  is  weird,  grewsome,  crushing,  and  can 
be  faced  (if  it  must  be  faced)  in  real  comfort  only  when  one 
is  going  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  with  a clear  conscience,  a light 
heart,  a good  cigar,  and  plenty  of  Mackintosh. 

So,  ere  Elsley  had  gone  a quarter  of  a mile,  he  turned  back, 
and  resolved  to  go  in,  and  take  up  his  book  once  more.  Per- 
haps Lucia  might  beg  his  pardon  ; and  if  not,  why,  perhaps  he 
might  beg  hers.  The  rain  was  washing  the  spirit  out  of  him,  as 
it  does  out  of  a thin-coated  horse. 

Stay  ! What  was  that  sound  above  the  roar  of  the  gale  ? 
a cannon  h 

He  listened,  turning  his  head  right  and  left  to  escape  the 
howling  of  the  wind  in  his  ears.  A minute,  and  another  boom 
rose  and  rang  aloft.  It  was  near,  too.  He  almost  fancied  that 
he  felt  the  concussion  of  the  air. 

Another,  and  another;  and  then,  in  the  village  below,  he 
could  see  lights  hurrying  to  and  fro.  A wreck  at  sea  ] He 
turned  again  up  the  lane.  He  had  never  seen  a wreck.  What 
an  opportunity  for  a poet ; and  on  such  a night  too  : it  would 
be  magnificent  if  the  moon  would  but  come  out  ! Just  the 
scene,  too,  for  his  excited  temper  ! He  will  work  on  upward, 
let  it  blow  and  rain  as  it  may.  He  is  not  disappointed.  Ere 
he  has  gone  a hundred  yards,  a mass  of  dripping  oil-skins  runs 
full  butt  against  him,  knocking  him  against  the  bank  ; and,  by 
the  clank  of  weapons,  he  recognises  the  coast-guard  watchman. 

“ Hillo  ! — who’s  that  ? Beg  your  pardon,  Sir,”  as  the  man 
recognises  Elsley’s  voice. 

“ What  is  it  1 — what  are  the  guns  h ” 

“ God  knows,  Sir  ! Overright  the  Chough  and  Crow ; on 
'em,  I’m  afeard.  There  they  go  again  ! — hard  up,  poor  souls  ! 
God  help  them  ! ” and  the  man  runs  shouting  down  the  lane. 

Another  gun,  and  another ; but  long  ere  Elsley  reaches  the 
cliff,  they  are  silent ; and  nothing  is  to  be  heard  but  the  noise 
of  the  storm,  which,  loud  as  it  was  below  among  the  wood,  is 
almost  intolerable  now  that  he  is  on  the  open  down. 

He  struggles  up  the  lane  toward  the  cliff,  and  there  pauses, 
gasping,  under  the  shelter  of  a wall,  trying  to  analyse  that  enor- 
mous mass  of  sound  which  fills  his  ears  and  brain,  and  flows 
through  his  heart  like  maddening  wine.  He  can  bear  the  sight 
of  the  dead  grass  on  the  cliff-edge,  weary,  feeble,  expostulating 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


50 


with  its  old  tormentor  the  gale  ; then  the  fierce  screams  of  the 
blasts  as  they  rush  up  across  the  layers  of  rock  below,  like  hounds 
leaping  up  at  their  prey ; and  far  beneath,  the  horrible  confused 
battle-roar  of  that  great  leaguer  of  waves.  He  cannot  see  them, 
as  he  strains  his  eyes  over  the  wall  into  the  blank  depth, — 
nothing  but  a confused  welter  and  quiver  of  mingled  air,  and 
rain,  and  spray,  as  if  the  very  atmosphere  were  writhing  in  the 
clutches  of  the  gale  : but  he  can  hear, — what  can  he  not  hear  ? 
It  would  have  needed  a less  vivid  brain  than  Elsley’s  to  fancy 
another  Badajos  beneath.  There  it  all  is  : — the  rush  of  columns 
to  the  breach,  officers  cheering  them  on, — pauses,  breaks,  wild 
retreats,  upbraiding  calls,  whispering  consultations, — fresh  rush 
on  rush,  now  here,  now  there, — fierce  shouts  above,  below,  behind, 
— shrieks  of  agony,  choked  groans  and  gasps  of  dying  men, 
— scaling-ladders  hurled  down  with  all  their  rattling  freight, — 
dull  mine-explosions,  ringing  cannon-thunder,  as  the  old  fortress 
blasts  back  its  besiegers  pell-mell  into  the  deep.  It  is  all  there  : 
truly  enough  there,  at  least,  to  madden  yet  more  Elsley’s  wild 
angry  brain,  till  he  tries  to  add  his  shouts  to  the  great  battle- 
cries  of  land  and  sea,  and  finds  them  as  little  audible  as  an 
infant’s  wail. 

Suddenly,  far  below  him,  a bright  glimmer ; — and,  in  a mo- 
ment, a blue-light  reveals  the  whole  scene,  in  ghastly  hues, — 
blue  leaping  breakers,  blue  weltering  sheets  of  foam,  blue  rocks, 
crowded  with  blue  figures,  like  ghosts,  flitting  to  and  fro  upon 
the  brink  of  that  blue  seething  Phlegethon,  and  rushing  up 
towards  him  through  the  air,  a thousand  flying  blue  foam- 
sponges,  which  dive  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  vanish,  like 
delicate  fairies  fleeing  before  the  wrath  of  the  gale  : — but  where 
is  the  wreck  ? The  blue-light  cannot  pierce  the  grey  veil  of 
mingled  mist  and  spray  which  hangs  to  seaward ; and  her  guns 
have  been  silent  for  half  an  hour  and  more. 

Elsley  hurries  down,  and  finds  half  the  village  collected  on 
the  long  sloping  point  of  down  below.  Sailors  wrapped  in  pilot- 
cloth,  oil-skinned  coast*  guardsmen,  women  with  their  gowns 
turned  over  their  heads,  staggering  restlessly  up  and  down,  and 
in  and  out,  while  every  moment  some  fresh  comer  stumbles  down 
the  slope,  thrusting  himself  into  his  clothes  as  he  goes,  and  asks, 
“ Where’s  the  wreck  !”  and  gets  no  answer,  but  a surly  advice 
to  “ hold  his  noise,”  as  if  they  had  hope  of  hearing  the  wreck 
which  they  cannot  see ; and  kind  women,  with  their  hearts  full 
of  mothers’  instincts,  declare  that  they  can  hear  little  children 
crying,  and  are  pooh-poohed  down  by  kind  men,  who,  man’s 
fashion,  don’t  like  to  believe  anything  too  painful,  or,  if  they 
believe  it,  to  talk  of  it. 

“What  were  the  guns  from,  then,  Brown?”  asks  the  Lieu- 
tenant of  the  head-boatman. 


60 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


“ Off  the  Chough  and  Crow,  I thought,  Sir.  God  grant  not  !,; 

“ You  thought,  Sir  !”  says  the  great  man,  willing  to  vent  his 
vexation  on  some  one.  “ Why  didn’t  you  make  sure 

“ Why,  just  look,  Lieutenant,”  says  Brown,  pointing  into  the 
•l  blank  height  of  the  dark ;”  “ and  I was  on  the  pier  too,  and 
couldn’t  see ; hut  the  look-out  man  here  says — ” A shift  of 
wind,  a drift  of  cloud,  and  the  moon  flashes  out  a moment. — 
“ There  she  is,  Sir  !” 

Some  three  hundred  yards  out  at  sea  lies  a long  curved  black 
line,  beautiful,  severe,  and  still,  amid  those  white  wild  leaping 
hills.  A murmur  from  the  crowd,  which  swells  into  a roar, 
as  they  surge  aimlessly  up  and  down. 

Another  moment,  and  it  is  cut  in  two  by  a white  line — covered 
— lost — all  hold  their  breaths.  Ho  ; the  sea  passes  on,  and  still 
the  black  curve  is  there  ; enduring. 

“ A terrible  big  ship  ! ” 

A Liverpool  clipper,  by  the  lines  of  her.” 

“ God  help  the  poor  passengers,  then ! ” sobs  a woman. 

“ They’re  past  our  help  : she’s  on  her  beam  ends.” 

“ And  her  deck  upright  toward  us.” 

“ Silence  ! Out  of  the  way  you  loafing  long-shores  ! ” shouts 
the  Lieutenant.  “ Brown — the  rockets  ! ” 

What  though  the  Lieutenant  be  somewhat  given  to  strong 
liquors,  and  stronger  language  ? He  wears  the  Queen’s  uniform ; 
and  what  is  more,  he  knows  his  work,  and  can  do  it ; all  make  a 
silent  ring  while  the  fork  is  planted  ; the  Lieutenant,  throwing 
away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  kneels  and  adjusts  the  stick ; Brown 
and  his  mates  examine  and  shake  out  the  coils  of  line. 

Another  minute,  and  the  magnificent  creature  rushes  forth 
with  a triumphant  roar,  and  soars  aloft  over  the  waves  in  a long 
stream  of  fire,  defiant  of  the  gale. 

Is  it  over  her  h Ho  ! A fierce  gust,  which  all  but  hurls  the 
spectators  to  the  ground ; the  fiery  stream  sweeps  away  to  the 
left,  in  a grand  curve  of  sparks,  and  drops  into  the  sea. 

“Try  it  again!”  shouts  the  Lieutenant,  his  blood  now  up. 

“ We’ll  see  which  will  beat,  wind  or  powder.” 

Again  a rocket  is  fixed,  with  more  allowance  for  the  wind ; but 
the  black  curve  has  disappeared,  and  he  must  wait  awhile. 

“ There  it  is  again  ! Ely  swift  and  sure,”  cries  Elsley,  “ thou 
fiery  angel  of  mercy,  bearing  the  saviour-line  ! It  may  not  be 
too  late  yet.” 

Bull  and  true  the  rocket  went  across  her;  and  “ three  cheers 
for  the  Lieutenant  !”  rose  above  the  storm. 

“ Silence,  lads  ! Hot  so  bad,  though ;”  says  he,  rubbing 
his  wet  hands.  “ Hold  on  by  the  line,  and  watch  for  a bite, 
Brown.” 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


61 


Five  minutes  pass.  Brown  has  the  line  in  his  hand,  waiting 
for  any  signal  touch  from  the  ship  : hut  the  line  sways  limp  in 
the  surge. 

Ten  minutes.  The  Lieutenant  lights  a fresh  cigar,  and  paces 
up  and  down,  smoking  fiercely. 

A quarter  of  an  hour ; and  yet  no  response.  The  moon  is 
shining  clearly  now.  They  can  see  her  hatchways,  the  stumps 
of  her  masts,  great  tangles  of  rigging  swaying  and  lashing  down 
across  her  deck ; hut  that  delicate  upper  curve  is  becoming  more 
ragged  after  every  wave ; and  the  tide  is  rising  fast. 

“ There’s  a pull !”  shouts  Brown.  . . . “ No,  there  ain’t ! . . . 
God  have  mercy,  Sir  ! She’s  going  ! ” 

The  black  curve  boils  up,  as  if  a mine  had  been  sprung  on 
board,  leaps  into  arches,  jagged  peaks,  black  bars  crossed  and 
tangled ; and  then  all  melts  away  into  the  white  seething  waste ; 
while  the  line  floats  home  helplessly,  as  if  disappointed;  and 
the  billows  plunge  more  sullenly  and  sadly  towards  the  shore,  as 
if  in  remorse  for  their  dark  and  reckless  deed. 

All  is  over.  What  shall  we  do  now  % Go  home,  and  pray 
that  God  may  have  mercy  on  all  drowning  souls  ] Or  think 
what  a picturesque  and  tragical  scene  it  was,  and  what  a beautiful 
poem  it  will  make,  when  we  have  thrown  it  into  an  artistic  form, 
and  bedizened  it  with  conceits  and  analogies  stolen  from  all 
heaven  and  earth  by  our  own  self-willed  fancy  h 

Elsley  Vavasour — through  whose  spectacles,  rather  than  with 
my  own  eyes,  I have  been  looking  at  the  wreck,  and  to  whose 
account,  not  to  mine,  the  metaphors  and  similes  of  the  last  two 
pages  must  be  laid — took  the  latter  course  ; not  that  he  was  not 
awed,  calmed,  and  even  humbled,  as  he  felt  how  poor  and  petty 
his  own  troubles  were,  compared  with  that  great  tragedy  : but 
in  his  fatal  habit  of  considering  all  matters  in  heaven  and  earth 
as  bricks  and  mortar  for  the  poet  to  build  with,  he  considered 
that  he  had  44  seen  enough ; ” as  if  men  were  sent  into  the  world 
to  see,  and  not  to  act;  and  going  home  too  excited  to  sleep, 
much  more  to  go  and  kiss  forgiveness  to  his  sleeping  wife,  sat 
up  all  night,  writing  44  The  "Wreck,”  which  may  be  (as  the 
reviewer  in  4‘  The  Parthenon  ” asserts)  an  exquisite  poem ; but 
I cannot  say  that  it  is  of  much  importance. 

So  the  delicate  genius  sate  that  night,  scribbling  verses  by  a 
warm  fire,  and  the  rough  Lieutenant  settled  himself  down  in  his 
Mackintoshes,  to  sit  out  those  weary  hours  on  the  bare  rock, 
having  done  all  that  he  could  do,  and  yet  knowing  that  his  duty 
was,  not  to  leave  the  place  as  long  as  there  was  a chance  ol 
saving — not  a life,  for  that  was  past  all  hope — but  a chest  of 
clothes,  or  a stick  of  timber.  There  he  settled  himself,  grum- 
bling, yet  faithful ; and  filled  up  the  time  with  sleepy  maledic- 


62 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


tions  against  some  old  admiral,  who  had — or  had  not — taken  a 
spite  to  him  in  the  West  Indies  thirty  years  before,  else  he 
would  have  been  a post  captain  by  now,  comfortably  in  bed  on 
hoard  a crack  frigate,  instead  of  sitting  all  night  out  on  a rock, 
like  an  old  cormorant,  &c.  &c.  Who  knows  not  the  woes  of 
ancient  coast-guard  lieutenants  ? 

But  as  it  befell,  Elsley  Vavasour  was  justly  punished  for  going 
home,  by  losing  the  most  “poetical”  incident  of  the  whole  night. 

Eor  with  the  coast-guardsmen  many  sailors  stayed.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  earned  by  staying  : but  still,  who  knew  but 
they  might  be  wanted  ? And  they  hung  on  with  the  same 
feeling  which  tempts  one  to  linger  round  a grave  ere  the  earth  is 
filled  in,  loth  to  give  up  the  last  sight,  and  with  it  the  last  hope. 
The  ship  herself,  over  and  above  her  lost  crew,  was  in  their  eyes 
a person  to  be  loved  and  regretted.  And  Gentleman  Jan  spoke, 
like  a true  sailor — 

“ Ah,  poor  dear  ! And  she  such  a beauty,  Mr.  Brown ; as 
any  one  might  see  by  her  lines,  even  that  way  off.  Ah,  poor 
dear ! ” 

“ And  so  many  brave  souls  on  board ; and,  perhaps,  some  of 
them  not  ready,  Mr.  Beer,”  says  the  serious  elderly  chief  boat- 
man. “ Eh,  Captain  Willis  h ” 

“The  Lord  has  had  mercy  on  them,  I don’t  doubt,”  answers 
the  old  man,  in  his  quiet  sweet  voice.  “ One  can’t  but  hope 
that  He  would  give  them  time  for  one  prayer  before  all  was 
over ; and  having  been  drowned  myself,  Mr.  Brown,  three  times, 
and  taken  up  for  dead — that  is,  once  in  Gibraltar  bay,  and  once 
when  I was  a total  wreck  in  the  old  Seahorse,  that  was  in  the 
hurricane  in  the  Indies ; after  that,  when  I fell  over  quay-head 
here,  fishing  for  bass, — why,  I know  well  how  quick  the  prayer 
will  run  through  a man’s  heart,  when  he’s  a-drowning,  and  the 
light  of  conscience,  too,  all  one’s  life  in  one  minute,  like — ” 

“ It  arn’t  the  men  I care  for,”  says  Gentleman  Jan ; “ they’re 
gone  to  heaven,  like  all  brave  sailors  do  as  dies  by  wreck  and 
battle  : but  the  poor  dear  ship,  d’ye  see,  Captain  Willis,  she 
ha’n’t  no  heaven  to  go  to,  and  that’s  why  1 feel  for  her  so.” 

Both  the  old  men  shake  their  heads  at  Jan’s  doctrine,  and 
turn  the  subject  off. 

“ You’d  better  go  home,  Captain,  ’fear  of  the  rheumatics.  It’s 
a rough  night  for  your  years ; and  you’ve  no  call,  like  me.” 

“ I would,  but  my  maid  there ; and  I can’t  get  her  home  ; and 
I can’t  leave  her.”’  And  Willis  points  to  the  schoolmistress,  who 
sits  upon  the  flat  slope  of  rock,  a little  apart  from  the  rest,  with 
her  face  resting  on  her  hands,  gazing  intently  out  into  the  wild 
waste. 

“ Make  her  go  ; it’s  her  duty — we  all  have  our  duties.  Why 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


63 


does  lier  mother  let  her  out  at  this  time  of  night?  I keep 
my  maids  tighter  than  that,  I warrant.’7  And  disciplinarian 
Mr.  Brown  makes  a step  towards  her. 

“ Ah,  Mr.  Brown,  don’t  now  ! She’s  not  one  of  us.  There’s 
no  saying  what’s  going  on  there  in  her.  May-be  she’s  praying ; 
may-be  she  sees  more  than  we  do,  oyer  the  sea  there.” 

“What  do  you  mean?  There’s  no  living  body  in  those 
breakers,  be  sure  ! ” 

“ There’s  more  living  things  about  on  such  a night  than  have 
bodies  to  them,  or  than  any  but  such  as  she  can  see.  If  any  one 
ever  talked  with  angels,  that  maid  does  ; and  I’ve  heard  her,  too ; 
I can  say  I have — certain  of  it.  Those  that  like  may  call  her  an 
innocent : but  I wish  I were  such  an  innocent,  Mr.  Brown.  I’d 
be  nearer  heaven  then,  here  on  earth,  than  I fear  sometimes  I 
ever  shall  be,  even  after  I’m  dead  and  gone.” 

“ Well,  she’s  a good  girl,  mazed  or  not ; but  look  at  her  now  ! 
What’s  she  after  ? ” 

The  girl  had  raised  her  head,  and  was  pointing,  with  one  arm 
stretched  stiffly  out,  toward  the  sea. 

Old  Willis  went  down  to  her,  and  touched  her  gently  on  the 
shoulder. 

“ Come  home,  my  maid,  then,  you’ll  take  cold,  indeed;”  but 
she  did  not  move  or  lower  her  arm. 

The  old  man,  accustomed  to  her  fits  of  fixed  melancholy,  looked 
down  under  her  bonnet,  to  see  whether  she  was  “past,”  as  he 
called  it.  By  the  moonlight  he  could  see  her  great  eyes  steady 
and  wide  open.  She  motioned  him  away,  half  impatiently,  and 
then  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a scream. 

“ A man  ! A man  ! Save  him  ! ” 

As  she  spoke,  a huge  wave  rolled  in,  and  shot  up  the  sloping 
end  of  the  point  in  a broad  sheet  of  foam.  And  out  of  it  struggled, 
on  hands  and  knees,  a human  figure.  He  looked  wildly  up,  and 
round,  and  then  his  head  dropped  again  on  his  breast ; and  he 
lay  clinging  with  outspread  arms,  like  Homer’s  polypus  in  the 
Odyssey,  as  the  wave  drained  back,  in  a thousand  roaring  cataracts, 
over  the  edge  of  the  rock. 

“ Save  him  ! ” shrieked  she  again,  as  twenty  men  rushed  forward 
— and  stopped  short.  The  man  was  fully  thirty  yards  from  them : 
but  close  to  him,  between  them  and  him,  stretched  a long  ghastly 
crack,  some  ten  feet  wide,  cutting  the  point  across.  All  knew  it : 
its  slippery  edge,  its  polished  upright  sides,  the  seething  cauldrons 
within  it ; and  knew,  too,  that  the  next  wave  would  boil  up  from 
it  in  a hundred  jets,  and  suck  in  the  strongest  to  his  doom,  to  fall, 
with  brains  dashed  out,  into  a chasm  from  which  was  no  return. 

Ere  they  could  nerve  themselves  for  action,  the  wave  had  come. 
Up  the  slope  it  went,  one  half  of  it  burying  the  wretched  mariner, 


61 


ANYTHING  BUT  STILL  LIFE. 


and  fell  over  into  the  chasm.  The  other  half  rushed  up  the  chasu 
itself,  and  spouted  forth  again  to  the  moonlight  in  columns  of 
snow,  in  time  to  meet  the  wave  from  which  it  had  just  parted,  as 
it  fell  from  above ; and  then  the  two  boiled  up,  and  round,  and 
over,  and  swirled  along  the  smooth  rock  to  their  very  feet. 

The  schoolmistress  took  one  long  look ; and  as  the  wave  retired, 
rushed  after  it  to  the  very  brink  of  the  chasm,  and  flung  herself 
on  her  knees. 

“ She’s  mazed  ! ” 

“ No,  she’s  not !”  almost  screamed  old  Willis,  in  mingled  pride 
and  terror,  as  he  rushed  after  her.  “ The  wave  has  carried  him 
across  the  crack  and  she’s  got  him  !”  And  he  sprang  upon  her, 
and  caught  her  round  the  waist. 

“ Now,  if  you  be  men  ! ” shouted  he,  as  the  rest  hurried  down. 

“ Now,  if  you  be  men  ; before  the  next  wave  comes  ! ” shouted 
Big  Jan.  “ Hands  together,  and  make  a line  ! ” And  he  took  a 
grip  with  one  hand  of  the  old  man’s  waistband,  and  held  out  the 
other  for  who  would  to  seize. 

Who  took  it  l Frank  Headley,  the  curate,  who  had  been 
watching  all  sadly  apart,  longing  to  do  something  which  no  one 
could  mistake. 

“Be  you  man  enough  1 ” asked  big  Jan  doubtfully. 

“ Try,”  said  Frank. 

“ Beally,  you  ben’t,  Sir,”  said  Jan,  civilly  enough.  “ Means  no 
offence,  Sir ; your  heart’s  stout  enough,  I see ; but  you  don’t  know 
what  it’ll  be.”  And  he  caught  the  hand  of  a huge  fellow  next 
him,  while  Frank  shrank  sadly  back  into  the  darkness. 

Strong  hand  after  hand  was  clasped,  and  strong  knee  after  knee 
dropped  almost  to  the  rock,  to  meet  the  coming  rush  of  water ; 
and  all  who  knew  their  business  took  a long  breath, — they  might 
have  need  of  one. 

It  came,  and  surged  over  the  man,  and  the  girl,  and  up  to  old 
Willis’s  throat,  and  round  the  knees  of  Jan  and  his  neighbour ; 
and  then  followed  the  returning  out-draught,  and  every  limb 
quivered  with  the  strain  : but  when  the  cataract  had  disappeared, 
the  chain  was  still  unbroken. 

“ Saved  ! ” and  a cheer  broke  from  all  lips,  save  those  of  the 
girl  herself;  she  was  as  senseless  as  he  whom  she  had  saved. 
They  hurried  her  and  him  up  the  rock  ere  another  wave  could 
come ; but  they  had  much  ado  to  open  her  hands,  so  flrmly 
clenched  together  were  they  round  his  waist. 

Gently  they  lifted  each,  and  laid  them  on  the  rock  : while  old 
Willis,  having  recovered  his  breath,  set  to  work  crying  like  a 
child,  to  restore  breath  to  “ his  maiden.” 

“ Bun  for  Dr.  Heale,  some  good  Christian  ! ” But  Frank, 
Longing  to  escape  from  a company  who  did  not  love  him,  and  to 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND.  65 

be  of  some  use  ere  the  night  was  out,  was  already  half-way  to 
the  village  on  that  very  errand. 

However,  ere  the  Doctor  could  be  stirred  out  of  his  boozy 
slumbers,  and  thrust  into  his  clothes  by  his  wife,  the  school- 
mistress was  safe  in  bed  at  her  mother’s  house ; and  the  man, 
weak,  but  alive,  carried  triumphantly  up  to  Heale’s  door ; which 
having  been  kicked  open,  the  sailors  insisted  in  carrying  him 
right  upstairs,  and  depositing  him  on  the  best  spare  bed. 

“ If  you  won’t  come  to  your  patients,  Doctor,  your  patients 
shall  come  to  you.  Why  were  you  asleep  in  your  liquors,  instead 
of  looking  out  for  poor  wratches,  like  a Christian'?  You  see 
whether  his  bones  be  broke,  and  gi’un  his  medicines  proper; 
and  then  go  and  see  after  the  schoolmistress;  she’m  worth  a 
dozen  of  any  man,  and  a thousand  of  you  ! W e’ll  pay  for  ’un 
like  men;  and  if  you  don’t,  we’ll  break  every  bottle  in  your 
shop.” 

To  which,  what  between  bodily  fear  and  ] 

Heale  assented ; and  so  ended  that  eventful 


CHAPTEB  IV. 

FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 

About  nine  o’clock  the  next  morning,  Gentleman 
into  Dr.  Heale’s  surgery,  pipe  in  mouth,  with  an  attendant  satel- 
lite ; for  every  lion,  poor  as  well  as  rich, — in  country  as  in  town, 
must  needs  have  his  jackal. 

Heale’s  surgery — or,  in  plain  English,  shop — was  a doleful 
hole  enough  ; in  such  dirt  and  confusion  as  might  be  expected 
from  a drunken  occupant,  with  a practice  which  was  only  not 
decaying  because  there  was  no  rival  in  the  field.  But  monopoly 
made  the  old  man,  as  it  makes  most  men,  all  the  more  lazy  and 
careless ; and  there  was  not  a drug  on  his  shelves  which  could 
be  warranted  to  work  the  effect  set  forth  in  that  sanguine  and 
too  trustful  book,  the  Pharmacopoeia,  which,  like  Mr.  Pecksniff’s 
England,  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty,  and  is,  accordingly 
(as  the  Lancet  and  Dr.  Letheby  know  too  well),  grievously  dis- 
appointed. 

In  this  kennel  of  evil  savours,  Heale  was  slowly  trying  to 
poke  things  into  something  like  order ; and  dragging  out  a few 
old  drugs  with  a shaky  hand,  to  see  if  any  one  would  buy  them, 
in  a vague  expectation  that  something  must  needs  have  happened 


fifi  FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 

to  somebody  the  night  before,  which  would  require  somewhat  ol 
his  art. 

And  he  was  not  disappointed.  Gentleman  J an,  without  taking 
his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  dropped  his  huge  elbows  on  the 
counter,  and  his  black-fringed  chin  on  his  fists;  took  a look 
round  the  shop,  as  if  to  find  something  which  would  suit  him  ; 
and  then — 

“ I say,  Doctor,  gi’s  some  tackleum.” 

“ Some  diachylum  plaster,  Mr.  Beer  ?”  says  Heale,  meekly, 
“ What  for,  then?” 

“ To  tackle  my  shins.  I barked  ’em  cruel  against  King 
Arthur’s  nose  last  night.  Hard  in  the  bone  he  is  ; — wish  I was 
as  hard.” 

“ How  much  diachylum  will  you  want,  then,  Mr.  Beer  ?” 

“Well,  I don’t  know.  Let’s  see  !”  and  Jan  pulls  up  his  blue 
trousers,  and  pulls  down  his  grey  rig  and  furrows,  and  considers 
his  broad  and  shaggy  shins. 

“ Matter  of  four  pennies  broad  ; two  to  each  leg  ;”  and  then 
replaces  his  elbows,  and  smokes  on. 

“ I say,  Doctor,  that  ’ere  curate  come  out  well  last  night.  I 
shall  go  to  church  next  Sunday.” 

“What,”  asks  the  satellite,  “after  you  upset  he  that  fashion 
yesterday  ?” 

“ I don’t  care  what  you  thinks says  Jan,  who,  of  course, 
bullies  his  jackal,  like  most  lions  : “ but  I goes  to  church.  He’s 
a good  ’un,  say  I, — little  and  good,  like  a Welshman’s  cow  ; and 
clapped  me  on  the  back  when  we’d  got  the  man  and  the  maid 
safe,  and  says, — ‘ Well  done  our  side,  old  fellow!’  and  stands 
something  hot  all  round,  what’s  more,  in  at  the  Mariner’s  Best. 
— I say,  Doctor,  where’s  he  as  we  hauled  ashore  ? I’ll  go  up 
and  see  ’un.” 

“Hot  now,  then,  Mr.  Beer;  not  now,  then.  He’s  sleeping, 
indeed  he  is,  like  any  child.” 

“ So  much  the  better.  We  wain’t  be  bothered  with  his 
hollering.  But  go  up  I will.  Do  ye  let  me  now ; I’ll  be  as  still 
as  a maid.” 

And  Jan  kicked  off  his  shoes,  and  marched  on  tiptoe  through 
the  shop,  while  Dr.  Heale,  moaning  professional  ejaculations, 
showed  him  the  way. 

The  shipwrecked  man  was  sleeping  sweetly ; and  little  was  to 
be  seen  of  his  face,  so  covered  was  it  with  dark  tangled  curls  and 
thick  beard. 

“ Ah  ! a ’Stralian  digger,  by  the  beard  of  him,  and  his  red 
jersey,”  whispered  Jan,  as  he  bent  tenderly  over  the  poor  fellow, 
and  put  his  head  on  one  side  to  listen  to  his  breathing.  “ Beau- 
tiful he  sleeps,  to  be  sure  !”  said  Jan ; “ and  a tidy-looking  chap, 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


67 


too,  ’Tis  a pity  to  wake  ’un,  poor  wratch  ; and  he,  perhaps,  with 
a sweetheart  aboard,  and  drownded ; or  else  all  his  kit  lost. — 
Let  ’un  sleep  so  long  as  he  can  : he’ll  find  all  out  soon  enough, 
God  help  him  ! 

And  big  Jan  stole  down  the  stairs  gently  and  reverently,  like 
a true  sailor ; and  took  his  diachylum,  and  went  off  to  plaster 
his  shins. 

About  ten  minutes  afterwards,  Heale  was  made  aware  that  his 
guest  was  awake,  by  sundry  grunts  and  ejaculations,  which  ended 
in  a series  of  long  and  doleful  whistles,  and  then  broke  out  into 
a song.  So  he  went  up,  and  found  the  stranger  sitting  upright 
in  bed,  combing  his  curls  with  his  fingers,  and  cha unting  unto 
himself  a cheerful  ditty. 

“ Good  morning,  Doctor,”  quoth  he,  as  his  host  entered.  “ Yery 
kind  of  you,  this.  Hope  I havn’t  turned  a better  man  than  myself 
out  of  his  bed.” 

“ Delighted  to  see  you  so  well.  Yery  near  drowned,  though. 
We  were  pumping  at  your  lungs  for  a full  half  hour.” 

“Ah'?  nothing,  though,  for  an  experienced  professional  man 
like  you ! ” 

“ Hum ! speaks  well  for  your  discrimination,”  says  Heale, 
flattered.  “ Yery  well-spoken  young  person,  though  his  beard 
is  a bit  wild. — How  did  you  know,  then,  that  I was  a doctor  ? ” 

“ By  the  reverend  looks  of  you,  Sir.  Besides,  I smelt  the 
rhubarb  and  senna  all  the  way  up-stairs,  and  knew  that  I’d 
fallen  among  professional  brethren : — 

‘ Oh,  then  this  valiant  mariner, 

Which  sailed  across  the  sea, 

He  came  home  to  his  own  sweetheart, 

With  his  heart  so  full  of  glee ; 

With  his  heart  so  full  of  glee,  Sir, 

And  his  pockets  full  of  gold, 

And  his  bag  of  drugget,  with  many  a nugget, 

As  heavy  as  he  could  hold.  ’ 

Don’t  you  wish  yours  was,  Doctor  ? ” 

“ Eh,  eh,  eh,”  sniggered  Heale. 

“ Mine  was  last  night.  How,  Doctor,  let’s  have  a glass  of 
brandy-and-water,  hot  with,  and  an  hour’s  more  sleep  ; and  then 
kick  me  out,  and  into  the  workhouse.  Was  anybody  else  saved 
from  the  wreck  last  night  *?  ” 

“ Hobody,  Sir,”  said  Heale ; and  said  “ Sir,”  because,  in  spite 
of  the  stranger’s  rough  looks,  his  accent, — or  rather,  his  no- 
accent, — showed  him  that  he  had  fallen  in  with  a very  different, 
and  probably  a very  superior  stamp  of  man  to  himself ; in  the 

f 2 


68 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


light  of  which,  conviction  (and  being  withal  a good-natnred  old 
soul),  he  went  down  and  mixed  him  a stiff  glass  of  brandy-and- 
water,  answering  his  wife’s  remonstrances  by, — 

“ The  party  up-stairs  is  a hit  of  a frantic  party,  certainly ; 
hut  he  is  certainly  a very  superior  party,  and  has  the  true  gentle- 
man about  him,  any  one  can  see.  Besides,  he’s  shipwrecked, 
as  you  and  I may  be  any  day ; and  what’s  like  brandy-and- 
water  ? ” 

“ I should  like  to  know  wdien  I’m  like  to  be  shipwrecked,  or 
you  either ; ” says  Mrs.  Heale,  in  a tone  slightly  savouring  of 
indignation  and  contempt.  “ You  think  of  nothing  but  brandy- 
and-water.”  But  she  let  the  doctor  take  the  glass  upstairs, 
nevertheless. 

A few  minutes  afterwards,  Frank  came  in,  and  inquired  for 
the  shipwrecked  man. 

“Well  enough  in  body,  Sir;  and  rather  requires  your  skill 
than  mine,”  said  the  old  time-server.  “ Won’t  you  walk  up  ? ” 

So  up  Frank  was  shown. 

The  stranger  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  “ Capital,  your  brandy  is, 
Doctor. — Ah,  Sir,”  seeing  Frank,  “ it  is  very  kind  of  you,  I am 
sure,  to  call  on  me  ! I presume  you  are  the  clergyman  ? ” 

But  before  Frank  could  answer,  Heale  had  broken  forth  into 
loud  praises  of  him,  setting  forth  how  the  stranger  owed  his  life 
entirely  to  his  superhuman  strength  and  courage. 

“ Ton  my  word,  Sir,”  said  the  stranger, — looking  them  both 
over  and  over,  through  and  through,  as  if  to  settle  how  much 
of  all  this  he  was  to  believe, — “ I am  deeply  indebted  to  you 
for  your  gallantry.  I only  wish  it  had  been  employed  on  a 
better  subject.” 

“ My  good  Sir,”  said  Frank,  blushing,  “ you  owe  your  life  not 
to  me.  I would  have  helped  if  I could  ; but  was  not  thought 
worthy  by  our  sons  of  Anak  here.  Your  actual  preserver  was  a 
young  girl.” 

And  Frank  told  him  the  story. 

“ Whew  ! I hope  she  won’t  expect  me  to  marry  her  as  pay- 
ment.— Handsome  ? ” 

“ Beautiful,”  said  Frank. 

“ Money  ? ” 

“ The  village  schoolmistress.” 

“ Clever  ? ” 

“ A sort  of  half-baked  body,”  said  Heale. 

“A  very  puzzling  intellect,”  said  Frank. 

“ Ah — well — that’s  a fair  excuse  for  declining  the  honour.  I 
can’t  be  expected  to  marry  a frantic  party,  as  you  called  me  down 
stairs  just  now,  Doctor.” 

‘I,  Sir?” 


69 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 

“ Yes,  I heard ; no  offence,  though,  my  good  Sir, — but  I’ve 
the  ears  of  a fox.  I hope  really,  though,  that  she  is  none  the 
worse  for  her  heroic  flights.” 

“ How  is  she  this  morning,  Mr.  Heale  h ” 

“ Well — poor  thing,  a little  light-headed  last  night : hut 
kindly  when  I went  in  last.” 

“ Whew  ! I hope  she  has  not  fallen  in  love  with  me.  She 
may  fancy  me  her  property — a private  waif  and  stray.  Better 
send  for  the  Coast-guard  officer,  and  let  him  claim  me  as  belong- 
ing to  the  Admiralty,  as  flotsom,  jetsom,  and  lagend ; for  I was 
all  three  last  night.” 

“ You  were,  indeed,  Sir,”  said  Frank,  who  began  to  be  a little 
tired  of  this  levity;  “and  very  thankful  to  Heaven  you  ought 
to  be.” 

Frank  spake  this  in  a somewhat  professional  tone  of  voice ; 
at  which  the  stranger  arched  his  eyebrows,  screwed  his  lips  up, 
and  laid  his  ears  back,  like  a horse  when  he  meditates  a kick. 

“You  must  be  better  acquainted  with  my  affairs  than  I am, 
my  dear  Sir,  if  you  are  able  to  state  that  fact.— -Doctor  ! I hear 
a patient  coming  into  the  surgery.” 

“Extraordinary  power  of  hearing,  to  be  sure,”  said  Heale, 
toddling  down  stairs,  while  the  stranger  went  on,  looking  Frank 
full  in  the  face. 

“How  that  old  fogy’s  gone  down  stairs,  my  dear  Sir,  let  us 
come  to  an  understanding  at  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance. 
Of  course,  you’re  bound  by  your  cloth  to  say  that  sort  of  thing 
to  me,  just  as  I am  bound  by  it  not  to  swear  in  your  company : 
but  you’ll  allow  me  to  remark,  that  it  would  be  rather  trying 
even  to  your  faith,  if  you  were'  to  be  thrown  ashore  with  nothing 
in  the  world  but  an  old  jersey  and  a bag  of  tobacco,  two  hundred 
miles  short  of  the  port  where  you  hoped  to  land  with  fifteen 
hundred  well-earned  pounds  in  your  pocket.” 

“ My  dear  Sir,”  said  Frank,  after  a pause,  “whatsoever  comes 
from  our  Father’s  hand  must  be  meant  in  love.  ‘The  Lord 
gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away.’  ” 

A quaint  wince  passed  over  the  stranger’s  face. 

“ Father,  Sir  ? That  fifteen  hundred  pounds  was  going  to  my 
father’s  hand,  from  whosesoever  hand  it  came,  or  the  loss  of  it. 
And  now  what  is  to  become  of  the  poor  old  man,  that  hussy 
Dame  Fortune  only  knows — if  she  knows  her  own  mind  an 
hour  together,  which  I very  much  doubt.  I worked  early  and 
late  for  that  money,  Sir;  up  to  my  knees  in  mud  and  water. 
Let  it  be  enough  for  your  lofty  demands  on  poor  humanity,  that 
I take  my  loss  like  a man,  with  a whistle  and  a laugh,  instead 
of  howling  and  cursing  over  it  like  a baboon.  Let’s  talk  of 
something  else ; and  lend  me  five  pounds,  and  a suit  of  clothes. 


70 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


I shan’t  run  away  with  them,  for  as  I’ve  heen  thrown  ashore 
here,  here  I shall  stay.” 

Trank  almost  laughed  at  the  free  and  easy  request,  though  he 
felt  at  once  pained  by  the  man’s  irreligion,  and  abashed  by  his 
Stoicism  ;• — would  he  have  behaved  even  as  well  in  such  a case  h 
“ I have  not  five  pounds  in  the  world.” 

“ Good  ! we  shall  understand  each  other  better.” 

“ But  the  suit  of  clothes  you  shall  have  at  once.” 

“ Good  again  ! Let  it  be  your  oldest ; for  I must  do  a little 
rock-scrambling  here,  for  purposes  of  my  own.” 

So  off  went  Frank  to  fetch  the  clothes,  puzzling  over  his  new 
parishioner.  The  man  was  not  altogether  well  bred,  either  in 
voice  or  manner ; but  there  was  an  ease,  a confidence,  a sense  of 
power,  which  made  Frank  feel  that  he  had  fallen  in  with  a very 
strong  nature;  and  one  which  had  seen  many  men,  and  many 
lands,  and  profited  by  what  it  had  seen. 

When  he  returned,  he  found  the  stranger  busy  at  his  ablutions, 
and  gradually  appearing  as  a somewhat  dapper,  handsome  fellow, 
with  a bright  grey  eye,  a short  nose,  a firm,  small  mouth,  a broad 
and  upright  forehead,  across  the  left  side  of  which  ran  a fearful 
scar. 

“ That’s  a shrewd  mark,”  said  he,  as  he  caught  Frank’s  eye 
fixed  on  it,  while  he  sat  coolly  arranging  himself  on  the  bedside. 
“ I got  it  in  fair  fight,  though,  by  a Crow’s  tomahawk  in  the 
Bocky  Mountains.  And  here’s  another  token  (lifting  up  his 
black  curls),  which  a Greek  robber  gave  me  in  the  Morea.  I’ve 
another  under  my  head,  for  which  I have  to  thank  a Tartar,  and 
one  or  two  more  little  remembrances  of  flood  and  field  up  and 
down  me.  Perhaps  they  may  explain  to  you  why  I take  life 
and  death  so  coolly.  I’ve  looked  too  often  at  the  little  razor* 
bridge  which  parts  them,  to  care  much  for  either.  How,  don’t 
let  me  trouble  you  any  longer.  You  have  your  flock  to  see  to, 
I don’t  doubt.  You’ll  find  me  at  church  on  Sunday.  I always 
do  at  Eome  as  Rome  does.” 

“ Then  you  will  stay  away,”  said  Frank,  with  a sad  smile. 

“ Ah  ? No.  Church  is  respectable  and  aristocratic  ; and 
there  one  don’t  get  sent  to  a place  unmentionable,  ten  times  an 
hour,  by  some  inspired  tinker.  Beside,  country  people  like  the 
Doctor  to  go  to  church  with  their  betters ; and  the  very  fellows 
who  go  to  the  Methodist  meeting  themselves  would  think  it 
infra  dig.  in  me  to  walk  in  there.  Flow,  good-bye — though  I 
haven’t  introduced  myself — not  knowing  the  name  of  my  kind 
preserver.” 

“ My  name  is  Frank  Headley,  Curate  of  the  Parish,”  said 
Frank,  smiling  : though  he  saw  the  man  was  rattling  on  for  the 
purpose  of  preventing  his  talking  on  serious  matters. 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


71 


“And  mine  is  Tom  Thurnall,  F.B.C.S.,  Licentiate  of  the 
Universities  of  Paris,  Glasgow,  and  whilome  surgeon  of  the 
good  clipper  Hesperus,  which  you  saw  wrecked  last  night.  So, 
farewell ! ” 

“ Come  over  with  me,  and  have  some  breakfast.” 

“N o,  thanks ; you’ll  be  busy.  I’ll  screw  some  out  of  old 
bottles  here.” 

“ And  now,”  said  Tom  Thurnall  to  himself,  as  Prank  left  the 
room,  “ to  begin  life  again  with  an  old  pen-knife  and  a pound  of 
honeydew.  I wonder  which  of  them  got  my  girdle.  I’ll  stick 
here  till  I find  out  that  one  thing,  and  stop  the  notes  by  to- 
day’s post  if  I can  but  recollect  them  all ; — if  I could  but  stop 
the  nugget,  too  ! ” 

So  saying,  he  walked  down  into  the  surgery,  and  looked 
round.  Everything  was  in  confusion.  Cobwebs  were  over  the 
bottles,  and  armies  of  mites  played  at  bo-peep  behind  them. 
He  tried  a few  drawers,  and  found  that  they  stuck  fast ; and 
when  he  at  last  opened  one,  its  contents  were  two  old  dried-up 
horse-balls,  and  a dirty  tobacco-pipe.  He  took  down  a jar 
marked  Epsom  salts,  and  found  it-  full  of  Welsh  snuff;  the 
next,  which  was  labelled  cinnamon,  contained  blue  vitriol.  The 
spatula  and  pill-roller  were  crusted  with  deposits  of  every  hue. 
The  pill-box  drawer  had  not  a dozen  whole  boxes  in  it;  and  the 
counter  was  a quarter  of  an  inch  deep  in  deposit  of  every  vege- 
table and  mineral  matter,  including  ends  of  string,  tobacco  ashes, 
and  broken  glass. 

Tom  took  up  a dirty  duster,  and  set  to  work  coolly  to  clear 
up,  whistling  away  so  merrily  that  he  brought  in  Heale. 

“ I’m  doing  a little  in  the  way  of  business,  you  see.” 

“ Then  you  really  are  a professional  practitioner,  Sir,  as  Mr. 
Headley  informs  me  : though,  of  course,  I don’t  doubt  the  fact  ? ” 
said  Heale,  summoning  up  all  the  little  courage  he  had,  to  ask 
the  question  with. 

“ F.B.C.S.  London,  Paris,  and  Glasgow.  Easy  enough  to  write 
and  ascertain  the  fact.  Have  been  medical  officer  to  a poor-law 
union,  and  to  a Brazilian  man-of-war.  Have  seen  three  choleras, 
two  army  fevers,  and  yellow-jack  without  end.  Have  doctored 
gunshot  wounds  in  the  two  Texan  wars,  in  one  Paris  revolution, 
and  in  the  Schleswig-Holstein  row ; beside  accident  practice  in 
every  country  from  California  to  China,  and  round  the  world  and 
back  again.  There’s  a fine  nest  of  Mr.  Weekes’s  friend  (if  not  crea- 
tion), Acarus  Horridus,”  and  Tom  went  on  dusting  and  arranging. 

Heale  had  been  fairly  taken  aback  by  the  imposing  list  of 
acquirements,  and  looked  at  his  guest  awhile  with  considerable 
awe  : suddenly  a suspicion  flashed  across  him,  which  caused  him 
(not  unseen  by  Tom)  a start  and  a look  of  self-congratulatory 


72 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 

wisdom.  He  next  darted  out  of  the  shop,  and  returned  as 
rapidly,  rather  redder  about  the  eyes,  and  wiping  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand. 

“ But,  Sir,  though,  though  ” — began  he — “ but,  of  course  you 
will  allow  me,  being  a stranger — and  as  a man  of  business — all  I 
have  to  say  is,  if — that  is  to  say — ” 

“ You  want  to  know  why,  if  I’ve  had  all  these  good  businesses, 
why  I haven’t  kept  them'?” 

“ Ex — actly,”  stammered  Heale,  much  relieved. 

“ A very  sensible  and  business-like  question  : but  you  needn’t 
liave  been  so  delicate  about  asking  it  as  to  want  a screw  before 
beginning.” 

44  Ah,  you’re  a wag,  Sir,”  keckled  the  old  man. 

44  I’ll  tell  you  frankly ; I have  an  old  father,  Sir, — a gentleman, 
and  a scholar,  and  a man  of  science ; once  in  as  good  a country 
practice  as  man  could  have,  till,  God  help  him,  he  went  blind, 
Sir — and  I had  to  keep  him,  and  have  still.  I went  over  the 
world  to  make  my  fortune,  and  never  made  it ; and  sent  him 
home  what  I did  make,  and  little  enough  too.  At  last,  in  my 
despair,  I went  to  the  diggings,  and  had  a pretty  haul — I needn’t 
say  how  much.  That  matters  little  now  ; for  I suppose  it’s  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.  There’s  my  story,  Sir,  and  a poor  one 
enough  it  is, — for  the  dear  old  man,  at  least.”  And  Tom’s 
voice  trembled  so  as  he  told  it,  that  old  Heale  believed  every 
word,  and,  what  is  more,  being — like  most  hard  drinkers — not 
44  unused  to  the  melting  mood,”  wiped  his  eyes  fervently,  and 
went  off  for  another  drop  of  comfort ; while  Tom  dusted  and 
arranged  on,  till  the  shop  began  to  look  quite  smart  and  business- 
like. 

44  How,  Sir  ! ” — when  the  old  man  came  back — 44  business  is 
business,  and  beggars  must  not  be  choosers.  I don’t  want  to 
meddle  with  your  practice  ; I know  the  rules  of  the  profession  : 
but  if  you’ll  let  me  sit  here,  and  mix  your  medicines  for  you, 
you’ll  have  the  more  time  to  visit  your  patients,  that’s  clear,” — 
and,  perhaps  (thought  he),  to  drink  your  brandy-and- water, — 
44  and  when  any  of  them  are  poisoned  by  me,  it  will  be  time  to  kick 
me  out.  All  I ask  is,  bed  and  board.  Don’t  be  frightened  for 
your  spirit-bottle — I can  drink  water  ; I’ve  done  it  many  a time, 
for  a week  together,  in  the  prairies,  and  been  thankful  for  a 
half-pint  in  the  day.” 

44  But,  Sir,  your  dignity  as  a — ” 

44  Fiddlesticks  for  dignity ; I must  live,  Sir.  Only  lend  me  a 
couple  of  sheets  of  paper  and  two  queen’s  heads,  that  I may  tell 
my  friends  my  whereabouts, — and  go  and  talk  it  over  with  Mrs. 
Heale.  We  must  never  act  without  consulting  the  ladies.” 

That  day  Tom  sent  off  the  following  epistle  : — 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND.  73 

‘ To  Charles  Shuter,  Esq.,  M.D.,  St  Mumpsimus's  Hospital , 
London. 

“ Dear  Charley, — 

‘ I do  adjure  thee,  by  old  pleasant  days, 

Quartier  Latin,  and  neatly-shod  grisettes, 

By  all  our  wanderings  in  quaint  by-ways, 

By  ancient  frolics,  and  by  ancient  debts,’ 

“ Go  to  the  United  Bank  of  Australia  forthwith,  and  stop  the 
notes  whose  numbers — all,  alas  ! which  I can  recollect — are 
enclosed.  Next,  lend  me  five  pounds.  Next,  send  me  down,  as 
quick  as  possible,  five  pounds’  worth  of  decent  drugs,  as  per  list ; 
and — if  you  can  borrow  me  one — a tolerable  microscope,  and  a 
few  natural  history  books,  to  astound  the  yokels  here  with  : for 
I was  shipwrecked  here  last  night,  after  all,  at  a dirty  little 
west-country  port,  and  what’s  worse,  robbed  of  all  I had  made  at 
the  diggings,  and  start  fair,  once  more,  to  run  against  cruel  Dame 
Fortune,  as  Colson  did  against  the  Indians,  without  a shirt  to  my 
back.  Don’t  be  a hospitable  fellow,  and  ask  me  to  come  up  and 
camp  with  you.  Mumpsimus’s  and  all  old  faces  would  be  a 
great  temptation  : but  here  I must  stick  till  I hear  of  my  money, 
and  physic  the  natives  for  my  daily  bread.” 

To  his  father  he  wrote  thus,  not  having  the  heart  to  tell  the 
truth : — 

“ To  Edward  Thurnall,  Esq.,  M.D.,  Whitbury. 

My  Dearest  old  Eather, — I hope  to  see  you  again  in  a few 
weeks,  as  soon  as  I have  settled  a little  business  here,  where  I 
have  found  a capital  opening  for  a medical  man.  Meanwhile 
let  Mark  or  Mary  write  and  tell  me  how  you  are — and  for 
sending  you  every  penny  I can  spare,  trust  me.  I have  not  had 
all  the  luck  I expected ; but  am  as  hearty  as  a bull,  and  as 
merry  as  a cricket,  and  fall  on  my  legs,  as  of  old,  like  a cat.  I 
long  to  come  to  you  ; but  I mustn’t  yet.  It  is  near  three  years 
since  I had  a sight  of  that  blessed  white  head,  which  is  the  only 
thing  I care  for  under  the  sun,  except  Mark  and  little  Mary — 
big  Mary  I suppose  she  is  now,  and  engaged  to  be  married  to 
some  ‘bloated  aristocrat.’  Best  remembrances  to  old  Mark 
Armsworth. 

“ Your  affectionate  son, 


“ Mr.  Heale,”  said  Tom  next,  “ are  we  Whigs  or  Tories  here1?” 
“ Why — ahem,  Sir,  my  Lord  Scoutbush,  who  owns  most  here- 
abouts, and  my  Lord  Minchampstead,  who  has  bought  Carcarrow 


n 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


moors  above, — very  old  Whig  connexions,  both  of  them ; but 
Mr.  Trebooze,  of  Trebooze,  lie,  again,  thorough-going  Tory — very 
good  patient  he  was  once,  and  may  be  again — ha  ! ha  ! Gay 
young  man,  Sir — careless  of  his  health  ; so  you  see  as  a medical 
man,  Sir — ” 

“ Which  is  the  liberal  paper i This  one?  Yery  good.” 
And  Tom  wrote  off  to  the  liberal  paper  that  evening  a letter, 
which  bore  fruit  ere  the  week’s  end,  in  the  shape  of  five 
columns,  headed  thus  : — 

WRECK  OF  THE  “ HESPERUS.” 

“ The  following  detailed  account  of  this  lamentable  catas- 
trophe has  been  kindly  contributed  by  the  graphic  pen  of  the 
only  survivor,  Thomas  Thurnall,  Esquire,  F.R.C.S.,  &c.  &c.  &c., 
late  surgeon  on  board  the  ill-fated  vessel.”  Which  five  columns 
not  only  put  a couple  of  guineas  into  Tom’s  pocket,  but,  as  he 
intended  they  should,  brought  him  before  the  public  as  an 
interesting  personage,  and  served  as  a very  good  advertisement 
to  the  practice  which  Tom  had  already  established  in  fancy. 

Tom  had  not  worked  long,  however,  before  the  Coast-guard 
Lieutenant  bustled  in.  He  had  trotted  home  to  shave  and  get 
his  breakfast,  and  was  trotting  back  again  to  the  shore. 

“ Hillo,  Heale ! can  I see  the  fellow  who  was  saved  last 
night  ? ” 

“ I am  that  fellow,”  says  Tom. 

“ The  dickens  you  are  ! you  seem  to  have  fallen  on  your  legs 
quickly  enough.” 

“ It’s  a trick  I’ve  had  occasion  to  learn,  Sir,”  says  Tom. 
“ Can  I prescribe  for  you  this  morning  ? ” 

“ Medicine  ? ” roars  the  Lieutenant,  laughing.  “ Catch  me 
at  it ! No  ; I want  you  to  come  down  to  the  shore,  and  help 
to  identify  goods  and  things.  The  wind  has  chopped  up  north, 
and  is  blowing  dead  on ; and,  with  this  tide,  we  shall  have 
a good  deal  on  shore.  So,  if  you’re  strong  enough — ” 

“ I’m  al way’s  strong  enough  to  do  my  duty,”  said  Tom. 

“Hum!  Yery  good  sentiment,  young  man.  Always  strong 
enough  for  duty. — Hum  ! worthy  of  Nelson  ; said  pretty  much 
the  same,  didn’t  he  ? something  about  duty  I know  it  was,  and 
always  thought  it  uncommon  fine. — Now,  then,  what  can  you 
tell  me  about  this  business  ? ” 

It  was  a sad  story ; but  no  sadder  than  hundreds  beside. 
They  had  been  struck  by  the  gale  to  the  westward  two  days 
before,  with  the  wind  south ; had  lost  their  foretopmasfc  and 
boltsprit,  and  become  all  but  unmanageable  ; had  tried  during 
a lull  to  rig  a jury-mast,  but  were  prevented  by  the  gale,  which 
burst  on  them  with  fresh  fury  from  the  south-west,  with  heavy 


FL0TS0M,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


75 


heavy  rain  and  fog ; had  passed  a light  in  the  night,  which  they 
took  for  Scilly,  but  which  must  have  been  the  Longships ; had 
still  fancied  that  they  were  safe,  running  up  Channel  with  a wide 
berth,  when,  about  sunset,  the  gale  had  chopped  again  to  north- 
west ; — and  Toni  knew  no  more.  44  I was  standing  on  the  poop 
with  the  captain  about  ten  o’clock.  The  last  words  he  said  to 
me  were, — 4 If  this  lasts,  we  shall  see  Erest  harbour  to-morrow,’ 
when  she  struck,  and  stopped  dead.  I was  chucked  clean  off 
the  poop,  and  nearly  overboard ; but  brought  up  in  the  mizen 
rigging.  Where  the  captain  went,  poor  fellow,  Heaven  alone 
knows ; for  I never  saw  him  after.  The  mainmast  went  like 
a carrot.  The  mizen  stood.  I ran  round  to  the  cabin-doors. 
There  were  four  men  steering ; the  wheel  had  broke  out  of  the 
poor  fellows’  hands,  and  knocked  them  over, — broken  their 
limbs,  I believe.  I was  stooping  to  pick  them  up,  when  a sea 
came  into  the  waist,  and  then  aft,  washing  me  in  through  the 
saloon-doors,  among  the  poor  half-dressed  women  and  children. 
Queer  sight,  Lieutenant ! I’ve  seen  a good  many,  but  never 
worse  than  that.  I bolted  to  my  cabin,  tied  my  notes  and  gold 
round  me,  and  out  again.” 

44  Didn’t  desert  the  poor  things  ? ” 

44  Couldn’t  if  I’d  tried ; they  clung  to  me  like  a swarm  of 
bees.  ’Gad,  Sir,  that  was  hard  lines ! to  have  all  the  pretty 
women  one  had  waltzed  with  every  evening  through  the  Trades, 
and  the  little  children  one  had  been  making  playthings  for, 
holding  round  one’s  knees,  and  screaming  to  the  doctor  to  save 
them.  And  how  the  * * * * was  I to  save  them,  Sir  ? ” cried 
Tom,  with  a sudden  burst  of  feeling,  which,  as  in  so  many 
Englishmen,  exploded  in  anger  to  avoid  melting  in  tears. 

44  Ought  to  be  a law  against  it,  Sir,”  growled  the  Lieutenant ; 
44  against  women-folk  and  children  going  to  sea.  It’s  murder 
and  cruelty.  I’ve  been  wrecked,  scores  of  times ; but  it  was 
with  honest  men,  who  could  shift  for  themselves,  and  if  they 
were  drowned,  drowned ; but  didn’t  screech  and  catch  hold — I 
couldn’t  stand  that ! Well  ? ” 

44  Well,  there  was  a pretty  little  creature,  an  officer’s  widow, 
and  two  children.  I caught  her  under  one  arm,  and  one  of  the 
children  under  the  other  ; said — 4 1 can’t  take  you  all  at  once ; 
I’ll  come  back  for  the  rest,  one  by  one.’ — Hot  that  I believed 
it ; but  anything  to  stop  the  screaming ; and  I did  hope  to  put 
some  of  them  out  of  the  reach  of  the  sea,  if  I could  get  them 
forward.  I knew  the  forecastle  was  dry,  for  the  chief  officer 
was  firing  there.  You  heard  him?  ” 

44  Yes,  five  or  six  times ; and  then  he  stopped  suddenly.” 

44  He  had  reason. — We  got  out.  I could  see  her  nose  up  in 
the  air  forty  feet  above  us,  covered  with  fore-cabin  passengers. 


76 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


I warped  the  lady  and  the  children  upward — Heaven  knows 
how ; for  the  sea  was  breaking  over  us  very  sharp — till  we  were 
at  the  mainmast  stump,  and  holding  on  by  the  wreck  of  it.  I 
felt  the  ship  stagger  as  if  a whale  had  struck  her,  and  heard 
a roar  and  a swish  behind  me,  and  looked  hack — -just  in  time  to 
see  mizen,  and  poop,  and  all  the  poor  women  and  children  in 
it,  go  bodily,  as  if  they  had  been  shaved  off  with  a knife.  I 
suppose  that  altered  her  balance ; for  before  I could  turn  again 
she  dived  forward,  and  then  rolled  over  upon  her  beam  ends  to 
leeward  ; and  I saw  the  sea  walk  in  over  her  from  stem  to 
stern  like  one  white  wall,  and  I was  washed  from  my  hold,  and 
it  was  all  over.” 

“ What  became  of  the  lady  ? ” 

“ I saw  a white  thing  flash  by  to  leeward ; — what’s  the  use  of 
asking  ? ” 

“ But  the  child  you  held  1 ” 

“ I didn’t  let  it  go  till  there  was  good  reason.” 

“Eh?” 

Tom  tapped  the  points  of  his  fingers  smartly  against  the  side 
of  his  head,  and  then  went  on,  in  the  same  cynical  drawl,  which 
he  had  affected  throughout  : — 

“ I heard  that — against  a piece  of  timber  as  we  went  over- 
board. And,  as  a medical  man,  I considered  after  that,  that  I 
had  done  my  duty.  Pretty  little  boy  it  was,  just  six  years  old ; 
and  such  a fancy  for  drawing.” 

The  Lieutenant  was  quite  puzzled  by  Toni’s  seeming  non- 
chalance. 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Sir  ? Did  you  leave  the  child  to 
perish  ? ” 

“ Confound  you,  Sir ! If  you  will  have  plain  English,  here 
it  is.  I tell  you  I heard  the  child’s  skull  crack  like  an  egg- 
shell ! There,  let’s  talk  no  more  about  it,  or  the  whole  matter. 
It’s  a bad  business,  and  I’m  not  answerable  for  it,  or  you  either ; 
so  let’s  go  and  do  what  we  are  answerable  for,  and  identify — ” 

“ Sir ! you  will  be  so  good  as  to  recollect,”  said  the  Lieu- 
tenant, with  ruffled  plumes. 

“ I do ; I do  ! I beg  your  pardon  a thousand  times,  I’m  sure, 
for  being  so  rude  : but  you  know  as  well  as  I,  Sir,  there  are 
a good  many  things  in  the  world  which  won’t  stand  too  much 
thinking  over ; and  last  night  was  one.” 

“ Yery  true,  very  true ; but  how  did  you  get  ashore  ? ” 

“ I get  ashore  ? Oh,  well  enough  ! Why  not  ? ” 

“ ’Gad,  Sir,  you  were  near  enough  being  drowned  at  last ; 
only  that  girl’s  pluck  saved  you.” 

‘‘Well;  but  it  did  save  me  : and  here  I am,  as  I knew  J 
should  be  when  I first  struck  out  from  the  ship.” 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


77 


“ Knew  ! — that  is  a hold  word  for  mortal  man  at  sea.” 

“ I suppose  it  is  : but  we  doctors,  you  see,  get  into  the  way  of 
looking  at  things  as  men  of  science ; and  the  ground  of  science 
is  experience  ; and,  to  judge  from  experience,  it  takes  more  to 
kill  me  than  I have  yet  met  with.  If  I had  been  going  to  he 
snuffed  out,  it  would  have  happened  long  ago.” 

“ Hum  ! It’s  well  to  carry  a cheerful  heart ; but  the  pitcher 
goes  often  to  the  well,  and  comes  home  broken  at  last.” 

“ I must  be  a gutta-percha  pitcher,  I think,  then,  or  else — 

‘ There’s  a sweet  little  cherub  who  sits  up  aloft,’  &c. 

as  Dibdin  has  it.  Now,  look  at  the  facts  yourself,  Sir,”  con- 
tinued the  stranger,  with  a recklessness  half  true,  half  assumed 
to  escape  from  the  malady  of  thought.  “ I don’t  want  to  boast, 
Sir ; I only  want  to  show  you  that  I have  some  practical  reason 
for  wealing  as  my  motto — ‘ Never  say  die.’  I have  had  the 
cholera  twice,  and  yellow-jack  beside ; live  several  times  I have 
had  bullets  through  me;  I have  been  bayoneted  and  left  for 
dead ; I have  been  shipwrecked  three  times — and  once,  as  now, 
I was  the  only  man  who  escaped ; I have  been  fatted  by 
savages  for  baking  and  eating,  and  got  away  with  a couple 
of  friends  only  a day  or  two  before  the  feast.  One  really  narrow 
chance  I had,  which  I never  expected  to  squeeze  through  : 
but,  on  the  whole,  I have  taken  full  precautions  to  prevent  its 
recurrence.” 

“ What  was  that,  then  ? ” 

“ I have  been  hanged,  Sir,”  said  the  Doctor  quietly. 

“ Hanged1?”  cried  the  Lieutenant,  facing  round  upon  his 
strange  companion  with  a visage  which  asked  plainly  enough — 
“ You  hanged  h I don’t  believe  you ; and  if  you  have  been 
hanged,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  get  hanged  h ” 

“You  need  not  take  care  of  your  pockets,  Sir, — neithm 
robbery  nor  murder  was  it  which  brought  me  to  the  gallows ; 
but  innocent  bug-hunting.  The  fact  is,  I was  caught  by  a party 
of  Mexicans,  during  the  last  war,  straggling  after  plants  and 
insects,  and  hanged  as  a spy.  I don’t  blame  the  fellows  : I 
had  no  business  where  I was ; and  they  could  not  conceive 
that  a man  would  risk  his  life  for  a few  butterflies.” 

“ But  if  you  were  hanged,  Sir — ” 

“Why  did  I not  die  ? — By  my  usual  luck.  The  fellows  were 
clumsy,  and  the  noose  would  not  work ; so  that  the  Mexican 
doctor,  who  meant  to  dissect  me,  brought  me  round  again ; and 
Deing  a freemason,  as  I am,  stood  by  me, — got  me  safe  off,  and 
cheated  the  devil.” 

The  worthy  Lieutenant  walked  on  in  silence,  stealing  furtive 
glances  at  Tom,  as  if  he  had  been  a guest  from  the  other  world. 


78 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


but  not  disbelieving  bis  story  in  the  least.  He  bad  seen,  as 
most  old  navy  men,  so  many  strange  things  happen,  that  be 
was  prepared  to  give  credit  to  any  tale  when  told,  as  Tom’s  was, 
with  a straightforward  and  unboastful  simplicity. 

“ There  lives  the  girl  who  saved  you,”  said  he,  as  they  passed 
Grace  Harvey’s  door. 

44  Ah  ? I ought  to  call  and  pay  my  respects.” 

But  Grace  was  not  at  home.  The  wreck  had  emptied  the 
school ; and  Grace  had  gone  after  her  scholars  to  the  beach. 

44  We  couldn’t  keep  her  away,  weak  as  she  was,”  said  a neigh- 
bour, 44  as  soon  as  she  heard  the  poor  corpses  were  coming 
ashore.” 

“Hum  !”  said  Tom.  “True  woman.  Quaint, — that  appetite 
for  horrors  the  sweet  creatures  have.  Did  you  ever  see  a man 
hanged,  Lieutenant? — Ho?  If  you  had,  you  would  have  seen 
two  women  in  the  crowd  to  one  man.  Can  you  make  out  the 
philosophy  of  that?” 

44  I suppose  they  like  it,  as  some  people  do  hot  peppers.” 

44  Or  donkeys  thistles  ; — find  a little  pain  pleasant ! I had  a 
patient  once  in  Trance,  who  read  Dumas’  4 Crimes  Celebres’  all 
the  week,  and  the  4 Yies  des  Saints  ’ on  Sundays,  and  both,  as 
far  as  I could  see,  for  just  the  same  purpose, — to  see  how  mise- 
rable people  could  be,  and  how  much  pinching  and  pulling  they 
could  bear.” 

So  they  walked  on,  along  a sheep-path,  and  over  the  Spur,  and 
down  to  the  Cove. 

It  was  such  a morning  as  often  follows  a gale,  when  the  great 
firmament  stares  down  upon  the  ruin  which  it  has  made,  bright, 
and  clear,  and  bold ; and  seems  to  say,  with  shameless  smile, — 
44  There,  I have  done  it ; and  am  as  merry  as  ever  after  it  all !” 
Beneath  a cloudless  sky,  the  breakers,  still  grey  and  foul  from 
the  tempest,  were  tumbling  in  before  a cold  northern  breeze. 
Half  a mile  out  at  sea,  the  rough  backs  of  the  Chough  and  Crow 
loomed  black  and  sulky  in  the  foam.  At  their  feet,  the  rocks 
and  shingle  of  the  Cove  were  alive  with  human  beings — groups 
of  women  and  children  clustering  round  a corpse  or  a chest ; 
sailors,  knee-deep  in  the  surf,  hauling  at  floating  spars  and  ropes ; 
oil-skinned  coast-guardsmen  pacing  up  and  down  in  charge  of 
goods,  while  groups  of  farmers’  men,  who  had  hurried  down  from 
the  villages  inland,  lounged  about  on  the  top  of  the  cliff,  looking 
sulkily  on,  hoping  for  plunder : and  yet  half  afraid  to  mingle 
with  the  sailors  below,  who  looked  on  them  as  an  inferior  race, 
and  refused,  in  general,  to  intermarry  with  them. 

The  Lieutenant  plainly  held  much  the  same  opinion  ; for  as  a 
party  of  them  tried  to  descend  the  narrow  path  to  the  beach,  he 
shouted  after  them  to  come  back. 


7(J 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 

“Eh  'l  you  won’t  V*  and  out  rattled  from  its  scabbard  the  old 
worthy’s  sword.  “ Come  back,  I say,  you  loafing,  miching, 
wrecking  crow-keepers ; there  are  no  pickings  for  you  here. 
Brown,  send  those  fellows  back  with  the  bayonet.  None  but 
blue-jackets  allowed  on  the  beach!”  And  the  labourers  go  up 
again,  grumbling. 

“ Can’t  trust  those  landsharks.  They’ll  plunder  even  the  rings 
off  a corpse’s  fingers.  They  think  every  wreck  a godsend.  I’ve 
known  them,  after  they’ve  been  driven  off,  roll  great  stones  over 
the  cliff  at  night  on  the  coast-guard,  just  out  of  spite ; while 
these  blue-jackets  here — I can  depend  on  them.  Can  you  tell 
me  the  reason  of  that,  as  you  seem  a bit  of  a philosopher  ?” 

“It  is  easy  enough ; the  sailors  have  a fellow-feeling  with 
sailors,  and  the  landsmen  have  none.  Besides,  the  sailors  are 
finer  fellows,  body  and  soul ; and  the  reason  is  that  they  have 
been  brought  up  to  face  danger,  and  the  landsmen  haven’t.” 

“Well,”  said  the  Lieutenant,  “unless  a man  has  been  taught 
to  look  death  in  the  face,  he  never  will  grow  up,  I believe,  to  be 
much  of  a man  at  all.” 

“ Danger,  my  good  Sir,  is  a better  schoolmaster  than  all  your 
new  model  schools,  diagrams,  and  scientific  apparatus.  It  made 
our  forefathers  the  masters  of  the  sea,  though  they  never  heard 
of  popular  science ; and  I dare  say  couldn’t,  one  out  of  ten  of 
them,  spell  their  own  names.” 

This  sentiment  elicited  from  the  Lieutenant  a grunt  of  appro-  , 
bation,  as  Tom  intended  that  it  should  do ; shrewdly  arguing 
that  the  old  martinet  was  no  friend  to  the  modern  superstition, 
that  all  which  is  required  to  cast  out  the  devil  is  a smattering  of 
the  ’ologies. 

“Will  the  gentleman  see  the  corpses  ?”  asked  Brown;  “we 
have  fourteen  already;” — and  he  led  the  way  to  where,  along 
the  shingle  at  high-water  mark,  lay  a ghastly  row,  some  fearfully 
bruised  and  mutilated,  cramped  together  by  the  death  agony; 
others  with  the  peaceful  smile  which  showed  that  they  had  sunk 
to  sleep  in  that  strange  water-death,  amid  a wilderness  of  pleasant 
dreams.  Strong  men  lay  there,  little  children,  women,  whom 
the  sailors’  wives  had  covered  decently  with  cloaks  and  shawls ; 
and  at  their  heads  stood  Grace  Harvey,  motionless,  with  folded 
hands,  gazing  into  the  dead  faces  with  her  great  solemn  eyes. 
Her  mother  and  Captain  Willis  stood  by,  watching  her  with  a 
sort  of  superstitious  awe.  She  took  no  notice  either  of  Thurnall 
or  of  the  Lieutenant,  as  the  doctor  identified  the  bodies  one  by 
one,  without  a remark  which  indicated  any  human  emotion. 

“ A very  sensible  man,  Willis,”  said  the  Lieutenant,  apart,  as 
Tom  knelt  awhile  to  examine  the  crushed  features  of  a sailor ; 
and  then  looking  up,  said  simply, — 


80 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


“ James  Macgillivray,  second  mate.  Cause  of  death,  contu- 
sions ; probably  by  the  fall  of  the  mainmast.” 

“ A very  sensible  man,  and  has  seen  a deal  of  life,  and  kept 
his  eyes  open ; but  a terrible  hard-plucked  one.  Talked  like  a 
book  to  me  all  the  way ; but,  be  hanged  if  I don’t  think  he  has 
a thirty-two  pound  shot  under  his  ribs  instead  of  a heart. — 
Doctor  Thurnall,  that  is  Miss  Harvey, — the  young  person  who 
saved  your  life  last  night.” 

Tom  rose,  took  off  his  hat  (Frank  Headley’s),  and  made  her 
a bow,  of  which  an  ambassador  need  not  have  been  ashamed. 

“ I am  exceedingly  shocked  that  Miss  Harvey  should  have 
run  so  much  danger  for  anything  so  worthless  as  my  life.” 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  answered,  not  him,  but  her  own 
thoughts. 

“ Strange,  is  it  not,  that  it  wras  a duty  to  pray  for  all  these 
poor  things  last  night,  and  a sin  to  pray  for  them  this 
morning  ? ” 

“ Grace,  dear  ! ” interposed  her  mother,  “ don’t  you  hear  the 
gentleman  thanking  you  h ” 

She  started,  as  one  awaking  out  of  a dream,  and  looked  into 
his  face,  blushing  scarlet. 

“ Good  heavens,  what  a beautiful  creature  ! ” said  Tom  to 
himself,  as  quite  a new  emotion  passed  through  him.  Quite 
new  it  was,  whatsoever  it  was ; and  he  was  aware  of  it.  He 
had  had  his  passions,  his  intrigues,  in  past  years,  and  prided 
himself — few  men  more — on  understanding  women  ; but  the 
expression  of  the  face,  and  the  strange  words  with  which  she 
had  greeted  him,  added  to  the  broad  fact  of  her  having  offered 
her  own  life  for  his,  raised  in  him  a feeling  of  chivalrous  awe 
and  admiration,  which  no  other  woman  had  ever  called  up. 

“ Madam,”  he  said  again ; “ I can  repay  you  with  nothing 
but  thanks  : but,  to  judge  from  your  conduct  last  night,  you  are 
one  of  those  people  who  will  find  reward  enough  in  knowing 
that  you  have  done  a noble  and  heroic  action.” 

She  looked  at  him  very  steadfastly,  blushing  still.  Thurnall, 
be  it  understood,  was  (at  least,  while  his  face  was  in  the  state 
in  which  Heaven  intended  it  to  be,  half  hidden  in  a silky-brown 
beard)  a very  good-looking  fellow ; and  (to  use  Mark  Anns- 
worth’s  description)  “as  hard  as  a nail;  as  fresh  as  a rose ; and 
stood  on  his  legs  like  a game-cock.”  Moreover,  as  Willis  said 
approvingly,  he  had  spoken  to  her  “as  if  he  was  a duke,  and 
she  was  a duchess.”  Besides,  by  some  blessed  moral  law,  the 
surest  way  to  make  oneself  love  any  human  being  is  to  go  and 
do  him  a kindness ; and  therefore  Grace  had  already  a tender 
interest  in  Tom,  not  because  he  had  saved  her,  but  she  him. 
And  so  it  was,  that  a strange  new  emotion  passed  through  her 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND.  81 

heart  also,  though  so  little  understood  by  her,  that  she  put 
it  forthwith  into  words. 

“You  might  repay  me,”  she  said,  in  a sad  and  tender  tone. 

“ You  have  only  to  command  me,”  said  Tom,  wincing  a little 
as  the  words  passed  his  lips. 

“ Then  turn  to  God,  now  in  the  day  of  his  mercies.  Unless 
you  have  turned  to  him  already  ] ” 

One  glance  at  Tom’s  rising  eyebrows  told  her  what  he  thought 
upon  those  matters. 

She  looked  at  him  sadly,  lingeringly,  as  if  conscious  that  she 
ought  not  to  look  too  long,  and  yet  unable  to  withdraw  her 
eyes. — “ Ah ! and  such  a precious  soul  as  yours  must  be ; a 
precious  soul — all  taken,  and  you  alone  left ! God  must  have 
high  things  in  store  for  you.  He  must  have  a great  work  for 
you  to  do.  Else,  why  are  you  not  as  one  of  these  ? Oh,  think ! 
where  would  you  have  been  at  this  moment  if  God  had  dealt 
with  you  as  with  them  h ” 

“ Where  I am  now,  I suppose,”  said  Tom  quietly. 

“ Where  you  are  now  ? ” 

“ Yes ; where  I ought  to  be.  I am  where  I ought  to  be  now. 
I suppose  if  I had  found  myself  anywhere  else  this  morning, 
I should  have  taken  it  as  a sign  that  I was  wanted  there,  and 
not  here.” 

Grace  heaved  a sigh  at  words  which  were  certainly  startling. 
The  Stoic  optimism  of  the  world-hardened  doctor  was  new  and 
frightful  to  her. 

“ My  good  Madam,”  said  he,  “ the  part  of  Scripture  which  I 
appreciate  best,  just  now,  is  the  case  of  poor  Job,  where  Satan 
has  leave  to  rob  and  torment  him  to  the  utmost  of  his  wicked 
will,  provided  only  he  does  not  touch  his  life.  I wish,”  he  went 
on,  lowering  his  voice,  “to  tell  you  something  which  I do  not 
wish  publicly  talked  of;  but  in  which  you  may  help  me.  I 
had  nearly  fifteen  hundred  pounds  about  me  when  I came 
ashore  last  night,  sewed  in  a belt  round  my  waist.  It  is  gone. 
That  is  all.” 

Tom  looked  steadily  at  her  as  he  spoke.  She  turned  pale 
red,  pale  again,  her  lips  quivered  : but  she  spoke  no  word. 

“ She  has  it,  as  I live  ! ” thought  Tom  to  himself.  “‘Erailty, 
thy  name  is  woman  ! ’ The  canting,  little,  methodistical  hum- 
bug 1 She  must  have  slipped  it  off  my  waist  as  I lay  senseless. 

I suppose  she  means  to  keep  it  in  pawn,  till  I redeem  it  by 
marrying  her.  Well,  I might  take  an  uglier  mate,  certainly  ; 
but  when  I do  enter  into  the  bitter  bonds  of  matrimony,  I 
should  like  to  be  sure,  beforehand,  that  my  wife  was  not  a 
thief!” 

Why,  then,  did  not  Tom,  if  he  were  so  very  sure  of  Grace’s 

* G 


82 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 

having  the  belt,  charge  her  with  the  theft?  Because  he  had 
found  out  already  how  popular  she  was,  and  was  afraid  of 
merely  making  himself1  unpopular ; because,  too,  he  took  for 
granted  that  whosoever  had  his  belt,  had  hidden  it  already 
beyond  the  reach  of  a search  warrant;  and,  because,  after  all, 
an  honourable  shame  restrained  him.  It  would  be  a poor 
return  to  the  woman  who  had  saved  his  life  to  charge  her  with 
theft  the  next  morning ; and  more,  there  was  something  about 
that  girl’s  face  which  had  made  him  feel  that,  if  he  had  seen 
her  put  the  belt  into  her  pocket  before  his  eyes,  he  could  not 
have  found  the  heart  to  have  sent  her  to  gaol.  “ Ho  ! ” thought 
he ; “ I’ll  get  it  out  of  her,  or  whoever  has  it,  and  stay  here  till 
I do  get  it.  One  place  is  as  good  as  another  to  me.” 

But  what  was  Grace  saying  ? 

She  had  turned,  after  two  or  three  minutes’  astonished  silence, 
to  her  mother  and  Captain  Willis — 

“ Belt ! Mother ! Uncle  ! What  is  this  ? The  gentleman  has 
lost  a belt !” 

“ Dear  me  ! — a belt  ? Well,  child,  that’s  not  much  to  grieve 
over,  when  the  Lord  has  spared  his  life  and  soul  from  the  pit ! ” 
said  her  mother,  somewhat  testily. 

“ You  don’t  understand.  A belt,  I say,  full  of  money — fifteen 
hundred  pounds  ; he  lost  it  last  night.  Uncle  ? Speak,  quick  ! 
Did  you  see  a belt  ?” 

Willis  shook  his  head  meditatively.  “ I don’t,  and  yet  I do, 
and  yet  I don’t  again.  My  brains  were  well-nigh  washed  out  of 
me,  I know.  However,  Sir,  I’ll  think,  and  talk  it  over  with 
you  too ; for  if  it  be  in  the  village,  found  it  ought  to  be,  and 
will  be,  with  God’s  help.” 

“ Bound?”  cried  Grace,  in  so  high  a key,  that  Tom  entreated 
her  to  calm  herself,  and  not  make  the  matter  public. — “ Bound? 
yes ; and  shall  be  found,  if  there  be  justice  in  heaven.  Shame, 
that  west- country  folk  should  turn  robbers  and  wreckers  ! Ma- 
riners, too,  and  mariners’  wives,  who  should  be  praying  for  those 
who  are  wandering  far  away,  each  man  with  his  life  in  his  hand  ! 
Ah,  what  a world  ! When  will  it  end  ? soon,  too  soon,  when 
west-country  folk  rob  shipwrecked  men  ! But  you  will  find  your 
belt ; yes,  Sir,  you  will  find  it.  Wait  till  you  have  learnt  to  do 
without  it.  Man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone.  Do  you  think 
he  lives  by  gold  ? Only  be  patient ; and  when  you  are  worthy 
of  it,  you  shall  find  it  again,  in  the  Lord’s  good  time.” 

To  the  doctor  this  seemed  a mere  burst  of  jargon,  invented  for 
the  purpose  of  hiding  guilt ; and  his  faith  in  womankind  was  not 
heightened  when  he  heard  Grace’s  mother  say,  sotto  voce  to  Willis, 
that — “ In  wrecks,  and  fires,  and  such  like,  a many  people  com- 
plained of  having  lost  more  than  ever  they  had.” 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


83 


“ Oh  ho  ! my  old  lady,  is  that  the  way  the  fox  is  gone  ?” 
quoth  Tom  to  that  trusty  counsellor,  himself  • and  began  care- 
fully scrutinizing  Mrs.  Harvey’s  face.  It  had  been  very  handsome : 
it  was  still  very  clever : but  the  eyebrows,  crushed  together 
downwards  above  her  nose,  and  rising  high  at  the  outer  corners, 
indicated,  as  surely  as  the  restless  down-dropt  eye,  a character 
self-conscious,  furtive,  capable  of  great  inconsistencies,  possibly 
of  great  deceits. 

“ You  don’t  look  me  in  the  face,  old  lady ! 13  quoth  Tom  to 
himself.  “ Very  well ! between  you  two  it  lies  ; unless  that  old 
gentleman  implicates  himself  also,  in  his  approaching  con- 
fession.” 

He  took  his  part  at  once.  “ Well,  well,  you  will  oblige  me 
by  saying  nothing  more  about  it.  After  all,  as  this  good  lady 
says,  the  loss  of  a little  money  is  not  worth  complaining  over, 
when  one  has  escaped  with  life.  Good  morning ; and  many 
thanks  for  all  your  kindness  ! ” 

And  Tom  made  another  grand  bow,  and  went  off  to  the  Lieu- 
tenant. 

Grace  looked  after  him  awhile,  as  one  stunned ; and  then 
turned  to  her  mother. 

“ Let  us  go  home.” 

“ Go  home  ? Why  there,  dear  V3 

“ Let  me  go  home ; you  need  not  come.  I am  sick  of  this 
world.  Is  it  not  enough  to  have  misery  and  death,  (and  she 
pointed  to  the  row  of  corpses,)  but  we  must  have  sin,  too, 
wherever  we  turn  ! Meanness  and  theft: — and  ingratitude  too  !” 
she  added,  in  a lower  tone. 

She  went  homeward ; her  mother,  in  spite  of  her  entreaties, 
accompanied  her  ; and,  for  some  reason  or  other,  did  not  lose 
sight  of  her  all  that  day,  or  for  several  days  after. 

Meanwhile,  Willis  had  beckoned  the  doctor  aside.  His  face 
was  serious  and  sad,  and  his  lips  were  trembling. 

“ This  is  a very  shocking  business,  Sir.  Of  course,  you’ve  told 
the  Lieutenant.” 

“Hot  yet,  my  good  Sir.” 

“ But — excuse  my  boldness  ; what  plainer  way  of  getting  it 
back  from  the  rascal,  whoever  he  is?” 

“Wait  awhile,”  said  Tom  ; “ I have  my  reasons.” 

“ But,  Sir — for  the  honour  of  the  place,  the  matter  should  be 
cleared  up ; and  till  the  thief’s  found,  suspicion  will  lie  on  a 
dozen  innocent  men ; myself  among  the  rest,  for  that  matter.” 

“ You?”  said  Tom,  smiling.  “I  don’t  know  who  I have  the 
honour  to  speak  to  ; but  you  don’t  look  much  like  a gentleman 
who  wishes  for  a trip  to  Botany  Bay.” 

The  old  man  chuckled,  and  then  his  face  dropped  again. 

G 2 


84 


FLOTSOM,  JETSON,  AND  LAGEND. 


“I’m  glad  you  take  the  thing  so  like  a man,  Sir ; hut  it  is 
really  no  laughing  matter.  It’s  a scoundrelly  job,  only  fit  for  a 
Maltee  off  the  Nix  Mangeery.  If  it  had  been  a lot  of  those 
carter  fellows  that  had  carried  you  up,  I could  have  understood 
it ; wrecking’s  horn  in  the  hone  of  them  : hut  for  those  four 
sailors  that  carried  you  up,  ’gad,  Sir ! they’d  have  been  shot 
sooner.  I’ve  known  ’em  from  hoys  !”  and  the  old  man  spoke 
quite  fiercely,  and  looked  up ; his  lip  trembling,  and  his  eye 
moist. 

“ There’s  no  doubt  that  you  are  honest — whoever  is  not,” 
thought  Tom  ; so  he  ventured  a further  question. 

“ Then  you  were  by  all  the  while  ?” 

“ All  the  while  ? Who  more  ? And  that’s  just  what  puzzles 
me.” 

“ Pray  don’t  speak  loud,”  said  Tom.  “ I have  my  reasons  for 
keeping  things  quiet.” 

“ I tell  you,  Sir.  I held  the  maid,  and  big  John  Beer  (Gen- 
tleman Jan  they  call  him)  held  me ; and  the  maid  had  both  her 
hands  tight  in  your  belt.  I saw  it  as  plain  as  I see  you,  just 
before  the  wave  covered  us,  though  little  L thought  what  was  in 
it ; and  should  never  have  remembered  you  had  a belt  at  all,  if 
I hadn’t  thought  over  things  in  the  last  five  minutes.” 

“ Well,  Sir,  I am  lucky  in  having  come  straight  to  the  fountain 
head ; and  must  thank  you  for  telling  me  so  frankly  what  you 
know.” 

“Tell  you,  Sir?  What  else  should  one  do  but  tell  you?  I 
only  wish  I knew  more ; and  more  I’ll  know,  please  the  Lord. 
And  you’ll  excuse  an  old  sailor  (though  not  of  your  rank,  Sir) 
saying  that  he  wonders  a little  that  you  don’t  take  the  plain 
means  of  knowing  more  yourself.” 

“May  I take  the  liberty  of  asking  your  name?”  said  Tom; 
who  saw  by  this  time  that  the  old  man  was  worthy  of  his  con- 
fidence. 

“ Willis,  at  your  service,  Sir.  Captain  they  call  me,  though 
I’m  none.  Sailing-master  I was,  on  board  of  His  Majesty’s  ship 
Niobe,  84 ; ” and  Willis  raised  his  hat  with  such  an  air,  that  Tom 
raised  his  in  return. 

“ Then,  Captain  Willis,  let  me  have  five  words  with  you  apart ; 
first  thanking  you  for  having  helped  to  save  my  life.” 

“I’m  very  glad  I did,  Sir;  and  thanked  God  for  it  on  my 
knees  this  morning : but  you’ll  excuse  me,  Sir,  I was  thinking 
- -and  no  blame  to  me — more  of  saving  my  poor  maid’s  life  than 
yours,  and  no  offence  to  you,  for  I hadn’t  the  honour  of  know- 
ing you;  but  for  her,  I’d  have  been  drowned  a dozen  times 
over.” 

“No  offence,  indeed,”  said  Tom;  and  hardly  knew  what  to 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND.  85 

say  next.  “ May  I ask,  is  she  your  niece  ? I heard  her  call  you 
uncle.” 

“ Oh,  no — no  relation ; only  I look  on  her  as  my  own,  poor 
thing,  having  no  father ; and  she  always  calls  me  Uncle,  as  most 
do  us  old  men  in  the  West.” 

“ Well,  then,  Sir,”  said  Tom,  “ you  will  answer  for  none  of 
the  four  sailors  having  robbed  me  1 ” 

“ I’ve  said  it,  Sir.” 

“ Was  any  one  else  close  to  her  vrhen  we  were  brought 
ashore  h ” 

“ Ho  one  but  I.  I brought  her  round  myself.” 

“ And  who  took  her  home  h ” 

“ Her  mother  and  I.” 

“ Yery  good.  And  you  never  saw  the  belt  after  she  had  Uer 
hands  in  it  ? ” 

“ Ho  ; I’m  sure  not.” 

“ Was  her  mother  by  her  when  she  was  lying  on  the  rock  Vy 
“ Ho  ; came  up  afterwards,  just  as  I got  her  on  her  feet.” 

“ Humph  ! What  sort  of  a character  is  her  mother  h ” 

“ Oh,  a tidy,  God-fearing  person,  enough.  One  of  these 
Methodist  class-leaders,  Brianites  they  call  themselves.  I don’t 
hold  with  them,  though  I do  go  to  chapel  at  whiles ; but  there 
are  good  ones  among  them ; and  I do  believe  she’s  one,  though 
she’s  a little  fretful  at  times.  Keeps  a little  shop  that  don’t  pay 
over  well ; and  those  preachers  live  on  her  a good  deal,  I think. 
Creeping  into  widows’  houses,  and  making  long  prayers — you 
know  the  text.” 

“Well,  now,  Captain  Willis,  I don’t  want  to  hurt  your 
feelings;  but  do  you  not  see  that  one  of  two  things  I must 
believe, — either  that  the  belt  was  torn  off  my  waist,  and  washed 
back  into  the  sea,  as  it  may  have  been  after  all;  or  else, 
that — ” 

“ Do  you  mean  that  she  took  it  ?”  asked  Willis,  in  a voice  of 
such  indignant  astonishment  that  Tom  could  only  answer  by  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

“ Who  else  could  have  done  so,  on  your  own  showing  ? ” 

“ Sir  ! ” said  Willis,  slowly.  “ I thought  I had  to  do  with  a 
gentleman  : but  I have  my  doubts  of  it  now.  A poor  girl  risks 
her  life  to  drag  you  out  of  that  sea,  which  but  for  her  would  have 
hove  your  body  up  to  lie  along  with  that  line  there,” — and 
Willis  pointed  to  the  ghastly  row — “ and  your  soul  gone  to  give 
in  its  last  account — You  only  know  what  that  would  have  been 
like — And  the  first  thing  you  do  in  payment  is  to  accuse  her  of 
robbing  you — her,  that  the  very  angels  in  heaven,  I believe,  are 
glad  to  keep  company  with  ; ” and  the  old  man  turned  and  paced 
the  beach  in  fierce  excitement. 


86 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 

“ Captain  Willis,”  said  Tom,  44  I’ll  trouble  you  to  listen 
patiently  and  civilly  to  me  a minute.” 

Willis  stopped,  drew  himself  up,  and  touched  his  hat  me- 
chanically. 

44  Just  because  I am  a gentleman,  I have  not  accused  her;  but 
held  my  tongue,  and  spoken  to  you  in  confidence.  Now, 
perhaps,  you  will  understand  why  I have  said  nothing  to  the 
Lieutenant.” 

Willis  looked  up  at  him. 

“‘I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir.  I see  now,  and  I’m  sorry  if  I was 
rude;  but  it  took  me  aback,  and  does  still.  I tell  you,  Sir,” 
quoth  he,  warming  again,  “whatever’s  true, — that’s  false.  You’re 
wrong  there,  if  you  never  are  wrong  again ; and  you’ll  say  so 
yourself,  before  you’ve  known  her  a week.  No,  Sir ! If  you 
could  make  me  believe  that,  I should  never  believe  in  goodness 
again  on  earth ; but  hold  all  men,  and  women  too,  and  those 
above,  for  aught  I know,  that  are  greater  than  men  and  women, 
for  liars  together.” 

What  was  to  be  answered?  Perhaps  only  what  Tom  did 
answer. 

44  My  good  Sir,  I will  say  no  more.  I would  not  have  said 
that  much  if  I had  thought  I should  have  pained  you  so.  I 
suppose  that  the  belt  was  washed  into  the  sea.  Why  not  ? ” 

4 4 Why  not,  indeed,  Sir  1 That’s  a much  more  Christian-like 
way  of  looking  at  it,  than  to  blacken  your  own  soul  before  God 
by  suspecting  that  sweet  innocent  creature.” 

44  Be  it  so,  then.  Only  say  nothing  about  the  matter;  and 
beg  them  to  say  nothing.  If  it  be  jammed  among  the  rocks  (as 
it  might  be,  heavy  as  it  is),  talking  about  it  will  only  set  people 
looking  for  it ; and  I suppose  there  is  a man  or  two,  even  in 
Aberalva,  who  would  find  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a tempting 
bait.  If,  again,  some  one  finds  it,  and  makes  away  with  it,  he 
will  only  be  the  more  careful  to  hide  it  if  he  knows  that  I am  on 
the  look-out.  So  just  tell  Miss  Harvey  and  her  mother  that  I 
think  it  must  have  been  lost,  and  beg  them  to  keep  my  secret. 
And  now  shake  hands  with  me.” 

44  The  best  plan,  I believe,  though  bad,  is  the  best,”  said 
Willis,  holding  out  his  hand ; and  he  walked  away  sadly.  His 
spirit  had  been  altogether  ruffled  by  the  imputation  on  Grace’s 
character ; and,  besides,  the  chances  of  Thurnall’s  recovering  his 
money  seemed  to  him  very  small. 

In  five  minutes  he  returned. 

44  If  you  would  allow  me,  Sir,  there’s  a man  there  of  whom  I 
should  like  to  ask  one  question.  He  who  held  me,  and,  after 
that,  helped  to  carry  you  up ; ” and  he  pointed  to  Gentleman 
Jan,  who  stood,  dripping  from  the  waist  downward,  over  a chest 


FLOTSOM,  JETSOM,  AND  LAGEND. 


87; 

which  he  had  just  secured.  “ Just  let  us  ask  him,  off-hand  like, 
whether  you  had  a belt  on  when  he  carried  you  up.  You  may 
trust  him,  Sir.  He’d  knock  you  down  as  soon  as  look  at  you ; 
but  tell  a lie,  never.” 

They  went  to  the  giant ; and,  after  cordial  salutations,  Tom 
propounded  his  question  carelessly,  with  something  like  a white 
lie. 

“ It’s  no  great  matter ; hut  it  was  an  old  friend,  you  see,  with 
fittings  for  my  knife  and  pistols,  and  I should  he  glad  to  find  it 
again.” 

Jan  thrust  his  red  hand  through  his  black  curls,  and  medi- 
tated while  the  water  surged  round  his  ankles. 

u Hever  a belt  seed  I,  Sir ; leastwise  while  you  were  in  my 
hands.  I had  you  round  the  waist  all  the  way  up,  so  no  one 
could  have  took  it  off.  Why  should  they '?  And  I undressed 
you  myself ; and  nothing,  save  your  presence,  was  there  to  get 
off,  but  jersey  and  trousers,  and  a lump  of  backy  against  your 
skin  that  looked  the  right  sort.” 

“ Have  some,  then,”  said  Tom,  pulling  out  the  honey-dew. 
“ As  for  the  belt,  I suppose  it’s  gone  to  choke  the  dog-fish.” 

And  there  the  matter  ended,  outwardly  at  least ; but  only 
outwardly.  Tom  had  his  own  opinion,  gathered  from  Grace’s 
seemingly  guilty  face,  and  to  it  he  held,  and  called  old  Willis, 
in  his  heart,  a simple-minded  old  dotard,  who  had  been  taken  in 
by  her  hypocrisy. 

And  Tom  accompanied  the  Lieutenant  on  his  dreary  errand 
that  day,  and  several  days  after,  through  depositions  before  a 
justice,  interviews  with  Lloyd’s  underwriters,  and  all  the  sad 
details  which  follow  a wreck.  Ere  the  week’s  end,  forty  bodies 
and  more  had  been  recovered,  and  brought  up,  ten  or  twelve  at 
a time,  to  the  churchyard,  and  upon  the  down,  and  laid  side  by 
side  in  one  long  shallow  pit,  where  Frank  Headley  read  over 
them  the  blessed  words  of  hope,  amid  the  sobs  of  women,  and 
the  grand  silence  of  stalwart  men,  who  knew  not  how  soon  their 
turn  might  come  ; and  after  each  procession  came  Grace  Harvey, 
with  all  her  little  scholars  two  and  two,  to  listen  to  the  funeral 
service;  and  when  the  last  corpse  was  buried,  they  planted 
flowers  upon  the  mound,  and  went  their  way  again  to  learn 
hymns  and  read  their  Bible — little  ministering  angels  to  whom, 
as  to  most  sailors’  children,  death  was  too  common  a sight  to 
have  in  it  aught  of  hideous  or  strange. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  the  good  ship  Hesperus,  and  all  her 
gallant  crew. 

Yerily,  however  important  the  mere  animal  lives  of  men  may 
be,  and  ought  to  be,  at  times,  in  our  eyes,  they  never  have  been 
so,  to  judge  from  floods  and  earthquakes,  pestilence  and  storm, 


88 


THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 


in  the  eyes  of  Him  who  made  and  loves  ns  all.  It  is  a strange 
fact : better  for  ns,  instead  of  shutting  onr  eyes  to  it  because  it 
interferes  with  onr  modern  tenderness  of  pain,  to  ask  honestly 
what  it  means. 


CHAPTEK  Y. 

THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 

So,  for  a week  or  more,  Tom  went  on  thrivingly  enough,  and 
became  a general  favourite  in  the  town.  Heale  had  no  reason 
to  complain  of  boarding  him  ; for  he  had  dinner  and  supper 
thrust  on  him  every  day  by  one  and  another,  who  were  glad 
enough  to  have  him  for  the  sake  of  his  stories,  and  songs,  and 
endless  fun  and  good-humour.  The  Lieutenant,  above  all,  took 
the  new-comer  under  his  especial  patronage,  and  was  paid  for 
his  services  in  some  of  Tom’s  incomparable  honey-dew.  The 
old  fellow  soon  found  that  the  Doctor  knew  more  than  one  old 
foreign  station  of  his,  and  ended  by  pouring  out  to  him  his 
ancient  wrongs,  and  the  evil  doings  of  the  wicked  admiral ; all 
of  which  Tom  heard  with  deepest  sympathy,  and  surprise  that 
so  much  naval  talent  had  remained  unappreciated  by  the  unjust 
upper  powers ; and  the  Lieutenant,  of  course,  reported  of  him 
accordingly  to  Heale. 

“ A very  civil  spoken  and  intelligent  youngster,  Mr.  Heale, 
d’ye  see,  to  my  mind;  and  you  can’t  do  better  than  accept  his 
offer;  for  you’ll  find  him  a great  help,  especially  among  the 
ladies,  d’ye  see.  They  like  a good-looking  chap,  eh,  Mrs.  J ones  % ” 

On  the  fourth  day,  by  good  fortune,  what  should  come  ashore 
but  Tom’s  own  chest — moneyless,  alas  ! but  with  many  useful 
matters  still  unspoilt  by  salt  water.  So,  all  went  well,  and 
indeed  somewhat  too  well  (if  Tom  would  have  let  it),  in  the 
case  of  Miss  Anna  Maria  Heale,  the  Doctor’s  daughter. 

She  was  just  such  a girl  as  her  father’s  daughter  was  likely  to 
be ; a short,  stout,  rosy,  pretty  body  of  twenty,  with  loose  red 
lips,  thwart  black  eyebrows,  and  right  naughty  eyes  under  them ; 
of  which  Tom  took  good  heed  : for  Miss  Heale  was  exceedingly 
inclined,  he  saw,  to  make  use  of  them  in  his  behoof.  Let  others 
who  have  experience  in,  and  taste  for  such  matters,  declare  how 
she  set  her  cap  at  the  dapper  young  surgeon ; how  she  rushed 
into  the  shop  with  sweet  abandon  ten  times  a-day,  to  find  her 
father;  and,  not  finding  him,  giggled,  and  blushed,  and  shook 
her  shoulders,  and  retired,  to  peep  at  Tom  through  the  glass  door 
which  led  into  the  parlour ; how  she  discovered  that  the  muslin 
curtain  of  the  said  door  would  get  out  of  order  every  ten  minutes ; 


THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 


89 


and  at  last  called  Mr.  Thurnall  to  assist  her  in  rearranging  it ; 
how,  holder  grown,  she  came  into  the  shop  to  help  herself  to 
various  matters,  inquiring  tenderly  for  Tom’s  health,  and  giggling 
vulgar  sentiments  about  “ absent  friends,  and  hearts  left  behind 
in  the  hope  of  hsliing  out  whether  Tom  had  a sweetheart  or  not. 
How,  at  last,  she  was  minded  to  confide  her  own  health  to  Tom, 
and  to  instal  him  as  her  private  physician ; yea,  and  would  have 
made  him  feel  her  pulse  on  the  spot,  had  he  not  luckily  found 
some  assafoetida,  and  therewith  so  perfumed  the  shop,  that  her 
“ nerves”  (of  which  she'  was  always  talking,  though  she  had 
nerves  only  in  the  sense  wherein  a sirloin  of  beef  has  them) 
forced  her  to  beat  a retreat. 

But  she  returned  again  to  the  charge  next  day,  and  lushed 
bravely  through  that  fearful  smell,  cleaver  in  hand,  as  the  carrier 
set  down  at  the  door  a huge-box,  carriage-paid,  all  the  way  from 
London,  and  directed  to  Thomas  Thurnall,  Esquire.  She  would 
help  to  open  it ; and  so  she  did,  while  old  Heale  and  his  wife 
stood  by  curious, — he  with  a maudlin  wonder  and  awe  (for  he 
regarded  Tom  already  as  an  altogether  awful  and  incomprehensible 
“ party”),  and  Mrs.  Heale  with  a look  of  incredulous  scorn,  as 
if  she  expected  the  box  to  be  a mere  sham,  filled  probably  with 
shavings.  Eor  (from  reasons  best  known  to  herself)  she  had 
never  looked  pleasantly  on  the  arrangement  which  entrusted  to 
Tom  the  care  of  the  bottles.  She  had  given  way  from  motives  of 
worldly  prudence,  even  of  necessity ; for  Heale  had  been  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  week  quite  incapable  of  attending  to  his 
business  : but  black  envy  and  spite  were  seething  in  her  foolish 
heart,  and  seethed  more  and  more  fiercely  when  she  saw  that  the 
box  did  not  contain  shavings,  but  valuables  of  every  sort  and 
kind  — drugs,  instruments,  a large  microscope  (which  Tom 
delivered  out  of  Miss  Heale’s  fat  clumsy  fingers  only  by  strong 
warnings  that  it  would  go  off  and  shoot  her),  books  full  of  prints 
of  unspeakable  monsters ; and  finally,  a little  packet,  containing 
not  one  five-pound  note,  but  four,  and  a letter  which  Tom,  after 
perusing,  put  into  Mr.  Heale’s  hands,  with  a look  of  honest  pride. 

The  Mumpsimus  men,  it  appeared,  had  “ sent  round  the  hat  ” 
for  him,  and  here  were  the  results ; and  they  would  send  the  hat 
round  again  every  month,  if  he  wanted  it ; or,  if  he  would  come 
up,  board,  lodge,  and  wash  him  gratis.  The  great  Doctor  Bellairs, 
House  Physician,  and  Carver,  the  famous  operator,  (names  at 
which  Heale  bowed  his  head  and  worshipped,)  sent  compliments, 
condolences,  offers  of  employment — never  was  so  triumphant  a 
testimonial ; and  Heale,  in  his  simplicity,  thought  himself  (as 
indeed  he  was)  the  luckiest  of  country  doctors ; while  Mrs.  Heale, 
after  swelling  and  choking  for  five  minutes,  tottered  into  the  back 
room,  and  cast  herself  on  the  sofa  in  violent  hysterics. 


THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 


As  she  came  round  again,  Tom  could  not  hut  overhear  a little 
that  passed.  And  this  he  overheard  among  other  matters  : — 

“ Yes,  Mr.  Heale,  I see,  I see  too  well,  which  your  natural 
blindness,  Sir,  and  that  fatal  easiness  of  temper,  will  bring  you 
to  a premature  grave  within  the  paupers’  precincts ; and  this  young 
designing  infidel,  with  his  science  and  his  magnifiers,  and  his 
callipers,  and  philosophy  falsely  so  called,  which  in  our  true 
Protestant  youth  there  was  none,  nor  needed  none,  to  supplant 
you  in  your  old  age,  and  take  the  bread  out  of  your  grey  hairs, 
which  he  will  bring  with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  and  mine  likewise, 
which  am  like  my  poor  infant  here,  of  only  too  sensitive  sensi- 
bilities ! Oh,  Anna  Maria,  my  child,  my  poor  lost  child  ! which 
I can  feel  for  the  tenderness  of  the  inexperienced  heart ! My 
Virgin  Eve,  which  the  Serpent  has  entered  into  your  youthful 
paradise,  and  you  will  find,  alas  ! too  late,  that  you  have  warmed 
an  adder  into  your  bosom  !” 

“ Oh,  Ma,  how  indelicate!”  giggled  Anna  Maria,  evidently 
not  displeased.  “ If  you  don’t  mind  he  will  hear  you,  and  I 
should  never  be  able  to  look  him  in  the  face  again.”  And  there- 
with she  looked  round  to  the  glass  door. 

What  more  passed,  Tom  did  not  choose  to  hear ; for  he  began 
making  all  the  bustle  he  could  in  the  shop,  merely  saying  to 
himself, — 

“ That  flood  of  eloquence  is  symptomatic  enough  : I’ll  lay  my 
life  the  old  dame  knows  her  way  to  the  laudanum  bottle.” 

Tom’s  next  business  was  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  young 
Curate.  He  had  found  out  already,  cunning  fellow,  that  any  ex- 
treme intimacy  with  Headley  would  not  increase  his  general  popu- 
larity ; and,  as  we  have  seen  already,  he  bore  no  great  affection 
to  “ the  cloth  ” in  general : but  the  Curate  was  an  educated 
gentleman,  and  Tom  wished  for  some  more  rational  conversation 
than  that  of  the  Lieutenant  and  Heale.  Besides,  he  was  one  of 
those  men  with  whom  the  possession  of  power,  sought  at  first 
from  self-interest,  has  become  a passion,  a species  of  sporting, 
which  he  follows  for  its  own  sake.  To  whomsoever  he  met  he 
must  needs  apply  the  moral  stethoscope ; sound  him,  lungs, 
heart,  and  liver ; put  his  tissues  under  the  microscope,  and  try 
conclusions  on  him  to  the  uttermost.  They  might  be  useful 
hereafter ; for  knowledge  was  power  : or  they  might  not.  What 
matter  ? Every  fresh  specimen  of  humanity  which  he  examined 
was  so  much  gained  in  general  knowledge.  Yery  true,  Thomas 
Thurnall ; provided  the  method  of  examination  be  the  sound  and 
the  deep  one,  which  will  lead  you  down  in  each  case  to  the  real 
living  heart  of  humanity  : but  what  if  your  method  be  altogether 
a shallow  and  a cynical  one,  savouring  much  more  of  Gil  Bias 
than  of  St.  Paul,  grounded  not  on  faith  and  love  for  human 


THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 


91 


beings,  but  on  something  very  like  suspicion  and  contempt  ] 
You  will  be  but  too  likely,  Doctor,  to  make  the  coarsest  mistakes, 
when  you  fancy  yourself  most  penetrating ; to  mistake  the  mere 
scurf  and  disease  of  the  character  for  its  healthy  organic  tissue, 
and  to  find  out  at  last,  somewhat  to  your  confusion,  that  there 
are  more  things,  not  only  in  heaven,  but  in  the  earthiest  of  the 
earth,  than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy.  You  have  already 
set  down  Grace  Harvey  as  a hypocrite,  and  Willis  as  a dotard. 
Will  you  make  up  your  mind  in  the  same  foolishness  of  over- 
wisdom, that  Frank  Headley  is  a merely  narrow- headed  and 
hard-hearted  pedant,  quite  unaware  that  he  is  living  an  inner 
life  of  doubts,  struggles,  prayers,  self-reproaches,  noble  hunger 
after  an  ideal  of  moral  excellence,  such  as  you,  friend  Tom,  never 
yet  dreamed  of,  which  would  be  to  you  as  an  unintelligible  gibber 
of  shadows  out  of  dreamland,  but  which  is  to  him  the  only  reality, 
the  life  of  life,  for  which  everything  is  to  be  risked  and  suffered  ] 
You  treat  his  opinions  (though  he  never  thrusts  them  on  you) 
about  “ the  Church,”  and  his  duty,  and  the  souls  of  his  parish- 
ioners, with  civil  indifference,  as  much  ado  about  nothing ; and 
his  rubrical  eccentricities  as  puerilities.  You  have  already  made 
up  your  mind  to  “ try  and  put  a little  common  sense  into  him,” 
not  because  it  is  any  concern  of  yours  whether  he  has  common 
sense  or  not,  but  because  you  think  that  it  will  be  better  for  you 
to  have  the  parish  at  peace  ; but  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  how 
noble  the  man  is,  even  in  his  mistakes  ? How  that  one  thought, 
that  the  finest  thing  in  the  world  is  to  be  utterly  good,  and  to 
make  others  good  also,  puts  him  three  heavens  at  least  above  you, 
you  most  unangelic  terrier- dog,  bemired  all  day  long  by  grubbing 
after  vermin  ! What  if  his  idea  of  “the  Church”  be  somewhat 
too  narrow  for  the  year  of  grace  1854,  is  it  no  honour  to  him  that 
he  has  such  an  idea  at  all ; that  there  has  risen  up  before  him 
the  vision  of  a perfect  polity,  a “ Divine  and  wonderful  Order,” 
linking  earth  to  heaven,  and  to  the  very  throne  of  Him  who  died 
for  men ; witnessing  to  each  of  its  citizens  what  the  world  tries 
to  make  him  forget,  namely,  that  he  is  the  child  of  God  himself ; 
and  guiding  and  strengthening  him,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
to  do  his  Father’s  work]  Is  it  a shame  to  him  that  he  has  seen 
that  such  a polity  must  exist,  that  he  believes  that  it  does  exist , 
or  that  he  thinks  he  finds  it  in  its  highest,  if  not  its  perfect  form, 
in  the  most  ancient  and  august  traditions  of  his  native  land  ] 
True,  he  has  much  to  learn,  and  you  may  teach  him  something 
of  it ; but  you  will  find  some  day,  Thomas  Thurnall,  that,  grant- 
ing you  to  be  at  one  pole  of  the  English  character,  and  Frank 
Headley  at  the  other,  he  is  as  good  an  Englishman  as  you,  and 
can  teach  you  more  than  you  can  him. 

The  two  soon,  began  to  pass  almost  every  evening  together, 


92 


THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 


pleasantly  enougli ; for  the  reckless  and  rattling  manner  which 
Tom  assumed  with  the  mob,  he  laid  aside  with  the  Curate,  and 
showed  himself  as  agreeable  a companion  as  man  could  need : 
while  Tom  in  his  turn  found  that  Headley  was  a rational  and 
sweet-tempered  man,  who,  even  where  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  differ,  could  hear  an  adverse  opinion,  put  sometimes  in  a 
startling  shape,  without  falling  into  any  of  those  male  hysterics 
of  sacred  horror,  which  are  the  usual  refuge  of  ignorance  and 
stupidity,  terrified  by  what  it  cannot  refute.  And  soon  Tom 
began  to  lay  aside  the  reserve  which  he  usually  assumed  to 
clergymen,  and  to  tread  on  ground  -which  Headley  would  gladly 
have  avoided.  For,  to  tell  the  truth,  ever  since  Tom  had  heard 
of  Grace’s  intended  dismissal,  the  Curate’s  opinions  had  assumed 
a practical  importance  in  his  eyes ; and  he  had  vowed  in  secret 
that,  if  his  cunning  failed  him  not,  turned  out  of  her  school 
she  should  not  be.  Whether  she  had  stolen  his  money  or  not, 
she  had  saved  his  life;  and  nobody  should  wrong  her,  if  he 
could  help  it.  Besides,  perhaps  she  had  not  his  money.  The 
belt  might  have  slipped  off  in  the  struggle;  some  one  else  might 
have  taken  it  off  in  carrying  him  up  ; he  might  have  mistaken 
the  shame  of  innocence  in  her  face  for  that  of  guilt.  Be  it  as  it 
might,  he  had  not  the  heart  to  make  the  matter  public,  and 
contented  himself  with  staying  at  Aberalva,  and  watching  for 
every  hint  of  his  lost  treasure. 

By  which  it  befel  that  he  was  thinking,  the  half  of  every  day 
at  least,  about  Grace  Harvey ; and  her  face  was  seldom  out 
of  his  mind’s  eye  : and  the  more  he  looked  at  it,  either  in  fancy 
or  in  fact,  the  more  did  it  fascinate  him.  They  met  but  rarely, 
and  then  interchanged  the  most  simple  and  modest  of  salu- 
tations : but  Tom  liked  to  meet  her,  would  have  gladly  stopped 
to  chat  with  her ; however,  whether  from  modesty  or  from  a 
guilty  conscience,  §he  always  hurried  on  in  silence. 

And  she  h Tom’s  request  to  her,  through  Willis,  to  say 
nothing  about  the  matter,  she  had  obeyed,  as  her  mother  also 
had  done.  That  Tom  suspected  her  was  a thought  which  never 
crossed  her  mind ; to  suspect  any  one  herself  was  in  her  eyes 
a sin ; and  if  the  fancy  that  this  man  or  that,  among  the  sailors 
who  had  carried  Tom  up  to  Heale’s,  might  have  been  capable  of 
the  baseness,  she  thrust  the  thought  from  her,  and  prayed  to  be 
forgiven  for  her  uncharitable  judgment. 

But  night  and  day  there  weighed  on  that  strange  and  delicate 
spirit  the  shame  of  the  deed,  as  heavily,  if  possible,  as  if  she 
herself  had  been  the  doer.  There  was  another  soul  in  danger  of 
perdition;  another  black  spot  of  sin,  making  earth  hideous  to 
her.  The  village  was  disgraced ; not  in  the  public  eyes,  true  : 
but  in  the  eye  of  heaven,  and  in  the  eyes  of  that  stranger  for 


THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 


93 


whom  she  was  beginning  to  feel  an  interest  more  intense  than 
slie  ever  had  done  in  any  human  being  before.  Her  saintliness 
(for  Grace  was  a saint  in  the  truest  sense  of  that  word)  had  long 
since  made  her  free  of  that  “ communion  of  saints  ” which  con- 
sists not  in  Pharisaic  isolation  from  “the  world,”  not  in  the 
mutual  flatteries  and  congratulations  of  a self-conceited  clique ; 
but  which  bears  the  sins  and  carries  the  sorrows  of  all  around  : 
whose  atmosphere  is  disappointed  hopes  and  plans  for  good,  and 
the  indignation  which  hates  the  sin  because  it  loves  the  sinner, 
and  sacred  fear  and  pity  for  the  self-inflicted  miseries  of  those 
who  might  be  (so  runs  the  dream,  and  will  run  till  it  becomes 
a waking  reality)  strong,  and  free,  and  safe,  by  being  good  and 
wise.  To  such  a spirit  this  bold  cunning  man  had  come,  stiff- 
necked and  heaven-defiant,  a “ brand  plucked  from  the  burn- 
ing : ” and  yet  equally  unconscious  of  his  danger,  and  thankless 
for  his  respite.  Given,  too,  as  it  were,  into  her  hands  ; tossed 
at  her  feet  out  of  the  very  mouth  of  the  pit, — why  but  that  she 
might  save  him  ? A far  duller  heart,  a far  narrower  imagination 
than  Grace’s  would  have  done  what  Grace’s  did — concentrate 
themselves  round  the  image  of  that  man  with  all  the  love  of 
woman.  Por,  ere  long,  Grace  found  that  she  did  love  that  man, 
as  a woman  loves  but  once  in  her  life ; perhaps  in  all  time  to 
come.  She  found  that  her  heart  throbbed,  her  cheek  flushed, 
when  his  name  was  mentioned  ; that  she  watched,  almost  un- 
awares to  herself,  for  his  passing ; and  she  was  not  ashamed  at 
the  discovery.  It  was  a sort  of  melancholy  comfort  to  her  that 
there  was  a great  gulf  fixed  between  them.  His  station,  his 
acquirements,  his  great  connexions  and  friends  in  London,  (for 
all  Tom’s  matters  were  the  gossip  of  the  town,  as,  indeed,  he 
took  care  that  they  should  be,)  made  it  impossible  that  he 
should  ever  think  of  her ; and  therefore  she  held  herself  excused 
for  thinking  of  him,  without  any  fear  of  that  “ self-seeking,” 
and  “inordinate  affection,”  and  “unsanctified  passions,”  which 
her  religious  books  had  taught  her  to  dread.  Besides,  he  was 
not  “ a Christian.”  That  five  minutes  on  the  shore  had  told 
her  that ; and  even  if  her  station  had  been  the  same  as  his, 
she  must  not  be  “ unequally  yoked  with  an  unbeliever.” 
And  thus  the  very  hopelessness  of  her  love  became  its  food 
and  strength  ; the  feeling  which  she  would  have  checked  with 
maidenly  modesty,  had  it  been  connected  even  remotely  with 
marriage,  was  allowed  to  take  immediate  and  entire  dominion ; 
and  she  held  herself  permitted  to  keep  him  next  her  heart 
of  hearts,  because  she  could  do  nothing  for  him  but  pray  for 
his  conversion. 

And  pray  for  him  she  did,  the  noble,  guileless  girl,  day  and 
night,  that  he  might  be  converted ; that  he  might  prosper,  and 


94 


THE  WAY  10  WIN  THEM. 


become — perhaps  rich,  at  least  useful ; a mighty  instrument  in 
some  good  work.  And  then  she  would  build  up  one  beautiful 
castle  in  the  air  after  another,  out  of  her  fancies  about  what 
such  a ‘man,  whom  she  had  invested  in  her  own  mind  with  all 
the  wisdom  of  Solomon,  might  do  if  his  “talents  were  sanc- 
tified.” Then  she  prayed  that  he  might  recover  his  lost  gold — 
when  it  was  . good  for  him  ; that  he  might  discover  the  thief  : 
no — that  would  only  involve  fresh  shame  and  sorrow  : that  the 
thief,  then,  might  be  brought  to  repentance,  and  confession,  and 
restitution.  That  was  the  solution  of  the  dark  problem,  and 
for  that  she  prayed;  while  her  face  grew  sadder  and  sadder 
day  by  day. 

Tor  a while,  over  and  above  the  pain  which  the  theft  caused 
her,  there  came — how  could  it  be  otherwise  ? — sudden  pangs  of 
regret  that  this  same  love  was  hopeless,  at  least  upon  this  side 
of  the  grave.  Inconsistent  they  were  with  the  chivalrous  un- 
selfishness of  her  usual  temper ; and  as  such  she  dashed  them 
from  her,  and  conquered  them,  after  a while,  by  a method  which 
many  a woman  knows  too  well.  It  was  but  “ one  cross  more;” 
a natural  part  of  her  destiny — the  child  of  sorrow  and  heaviness 
of  heart.  Pleasure  in  joy  she  was  never  to  find  on  earth  ; she 
would  find  it,  then,  in  grief.  And  nursing  her  own  melancholy, 
she  went  on  her  way,  sad,  sweet,  and  steadfast,  and  lavished 
more  care  and  tenderness,  and  even  gaiety,  than  ever  upon  her 
neighbours’  children,  because  she  knew  that  she  should  never 
have  a child  of  her  own. 

But  there  is  a third  damsel,  to  whom,  whether  more  or  less 
engaging  than  Grace  Harvey  or  Miss  Heale,  my  readers  must 
needs  be  introduced.  Let  Miss  Heale  herself  do  it,  with  eyes 
full  of  jealous  curiosity. 

“ There  is  a foreign  letter  for  Mr.  Thurnall,  marked  Montreal, 
and  sent  on  here  from  Whitbury,”  said  she,  one  morning  at 
breakfast, and  in  a significant  tone;  for  the  address  was  evidently 
in  a woman’s  hand. 

“For  me — ah,  yes ; I see,”  said  Tom,  taking  it  carelessly,  and 
thrusting  it  into  his  pocket. 

“Won’t  you  read  it  at  once,  Mr.  Thurnall?  I’m  sure  you 
must  be  anxious  to  hear  from  friends  abroad;”  with  an  emphasis 
on  the  word  friends. 

“I  have  a good  many  acquaintances  all  over  the  world,  but 
no  friends  that  I am  aware  of,”  said  Tom,  and  went  on  with 
his  breakfast. 

“ Ah — but  some  people  are  more  than  friends.  Are  the 
Montreal  ladies  pretty,  Mr.  Thurnall  ? ” 

“ Don’t  know  ; for  I never  was  there.” 

Miss  Heale  was  silent,  being  mystified  : and,  moreover,  not 


THE  AVAY  TO  WIN  THEM.  95 

quite  sure  whether  Montreal  was  in  India  or  in  Australia,  and 
not  willing  to  show  her  ignorance. 

She  watched  Tom  through  the  glass  door  all  the  morning  to 
see  if  he  read  the  letter,  and  betrayed  any  emotion  at  its  con- 
tents : hut  Tom  went  about  his  business  as  usual,  and,  as  far  as 
she  saw,  never  read  it  at  all. 

However,  it  was  read  in  due  time ; for,  finding  himself  in  a 
lonely  place  that  afternoon,  Tom  pulled  it  out  with  an  anxious 
face,  and  read  a letter  written  in  a hasty  ill-formed  hand,  under- 
scored at  every  fifth  word,  and  plentifully  bedecked  with  notes 
of  exclamation. 

“ What  ? my  dearest  friend,  and  fortune  still  frowns  upon 
you  ? Your  father  blind  and  ruined  ! All,  that  I were  there  to 
comfort  him  for  your  sake  ! And  ah,  that  I were  anywhere, 
doing  any  drudgery,  which  might  prevent  my  being  still  a 
burden  to  my  benefactors.  Hot  that  they  are  unkind  ; not  that 
they  are  not  angels  ! I told  them  at  once  that  you  could  send 
me  no  more  money  till  you  reached  England,  perhaps  not  then ; 
and  they  answered  that  God  would  send  it ; that  He  who  had 
sent  me  to  them  would  send  the  means  of  supporting  me  ; and 
ever  since  they  have  redoubled  their  kindness  : but  it  is  intoler- 
able, this  dependence,  and  on  you,  too,  who  have  a father  to 
support  in  his  darkness.  Oh,  how  I feel  for  you  ! But  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I pay  a price  for  this  dependence.  I must 
needs  be  staid  and  sober  ; I must  needs  dress  like  any  Quakeress  ; 
I must  not  read  this  book  nor  that ; and  my  Shelley — taken  from 
me,  I suppose,  because  it  spoke  too  much  ‘ Liberty,’  though,  o t 
course,  the  reason  given  was  its  infidel  opinions — is  replaced  by 
‘ Law’s  Serious  Call.’  ’Tis  all  right  and  good,  I doubt  not : but 
it  is  very  dreary ; as  dreary  as  these  black  fir-forests,  and  brown 
snake  fences,  and  that  dreadful,  dreadful  Canadian  winter  which 
is  past,  which  went  to  my  very  heart,  day  after  day,  like  a sword 
of  ibe.  Another  such  winter,  and  I shall  die,  as  one  of  my  own 
humming-birds  would  die,  did  you  cage  him  here,  and  prevent 
him  from  fleeing  home  to  the  sunny  South  when  the  first  leaves 
begin  to  fall.  Dear  children  of  the  sun  ! my  heart  goes  forth  to 
them ; and  the  wfiir  of  their  wings  is  music  to  me,  for  it  tells 
me  of  the  South,  the  glaring  South,  with  its  glorious  flowers, 
and  glorious  woods,  its  luxuriance,  life,  fierce  enjoyments — let 
fierce  sorrows  come  with  them,  if  it  must  be  so  ! Let  me  take 
the  evil  with  the  good,  and  live  my  rich  wild  life  through 
bliss  and  agony,  like  a true  daughter  of  the  sun,  instead  of  crys- 
tallizing slowly  here  into  ice,  amid  countenances  rigid  with 
respectability,  sharpened  by  the  lust  of  gain ; without  taste, 
without  emotion,  without  even  sorrow ! Let  who  will  be  the 
stagnant  mili-head,  crawling  in  its  ugly  spade-cut  ditch  to  turn 


9G 


THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 


the  mill.  Let  me  be  the  wild  mountain  brook,  which  foams  and 
flashes  over  the  rocks — what  if  they  tear  it  ? — it  leaps  them 
nevertheless,  and  goes  laughing  on  its  way.  Let  me  go  thus,  for 
weal  or  woe  ! And  if  I sleep  awhile,  let  it  be  like  the  brook, 
beneath  the  shade  of  fragrant  magnolias  and  luxuriant  vines, 
and  image,  meanwhile,  in  my  bosom  nothing  but  the  beauty 
around. 

“ Yes,  my  friend,  I can  live  no  longer  this  dull  chrysalid  life, 
in  comparison  with  which,  at  times,  even  that  past  dark  dream 
seems  tolerable — for  amid  its  lurid  smoke  were  flashes  of  bright- 
ness. A slave?  Well;  I ask  myself  at  times,  and  what  were 
women  meant  for  but  to  be  slaves  ? Free  them,  and  they  enslave 
themselves  again,  or  languish  unsatisfied ; for  they  must  love. 
And  what  blame  to  them  if  they  love  a white  man,  tyrant  though 
he  be,  rather  than  a fellow-slave  ? If  the  men  of  our  own  race 
will  claim  us,  let  them  prove  themselves  worthy  of  us  ! Let 
them  rise,  exterminate  their  tyrants,  or,  failing  that,  show  that 
they  know  how  to  die.  Till  then,  those  who  are  the  masters  of 
their  bodies  will  be  the  masters  of  our  hearts.  If  they  crouch 
before  the  white  like  brutes,  what  wonder  if  we  look  up  to  him 
as  to  a god  ? Woman  must  worship,  or  be  wretched.  Do  I not 
know  it  ? Have  I not  had  my  dream — too  beautiful  for  earth  ? 
Was  there  not  one  whom  you  knew,  to  hear  whom  call  me  slave 
would  have  been  rapture ; to  whom  I would  have  answered  on 
my  knees,  Master,  I have  no  will  but  yours  ! But  that  is  past — 
past.  One  happiness  alone  was  possible  for  a slave,  and  even 
that  they  tore  from  me ; and  now  I have  no  thought,  no  purpose, 
save  revenge. 

“ These  good  people  bid  me  forgive  my  enemies.  Easy  enough 
for  them,  who  have  no  enemies  to  forgive.  Forgive  ? Forgive 
injustice,  oppression,  baseness,  cruelty  ? Forgive  the  devil,  and 
bid  him  go  in  peace,  and  work  his  wicked  will?  Why  have 
they  put  into  my  hands,  these  last  three  years,  books  worthy  of 
a free  nation  ? — books  which  call  patriotism  divine  ; which  tell 
me  how  in  every  age  and  clime  men  have  been  called  heroes  who 
rose  against  their  conquerors  ; women  martyrs  who  stabbed  their 
tyrants,  and  then  died  ? Hypocrites  ! Did  their  grandfathers 
meekly  turn  the  other  cheek  when  your  English  taxed  them 
somewhat  too  heavily  ? Do  they  not  now  teach  every  school- 
child  to  glory  in  their  own  revolution,  their  own  declaration  of 
independence,  and  to  flatter  themselves  into  the  conceit  that  they 
are  the  lords  of  creation,  and  the  examples  of  the  world,  because 
they  asserted  that  sacred  right  of  resistance  which  is  discovered 
to  be  unchristian  in  the  African  ? They  will  free  us,  forsooth,  in 
good  time  (is  it  to  be  in  God’s  good  time,  or  in  their  own  ?),  if  we 
will  but  be  patient,  and  endure  the  rice-swamp,  the  scourge,  the 


THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 


97 


slave-market,  and  shame  unspeakable,  a few  years  more,  till  all  is 
ready  and  safe, — for  them.  Dreamers  as  well  as  hypocrites  ! 
What  nation  was  ever  freed  by  others’  help  ? I have  been  read- 
ing history  to  see, — you  do  not  know  how  much  I have  been 
reading, — and  I find  that  freemen  have  always  freed  themselves, 
as  we  must  do  ; and  as  they  will  never  let  us  do,  because  they 
know  that  with  freedom  must  come  retribution ; that  our 
Southern  tyrants  have  an  account  to  render,  which  the  cold 
Northerner  has  no  heart  to  see  him  pay.  Dor,  after  all,  he  loves 
the  Southerner  better  than  the  slave ; and  fears  him  more  also. 
What  if  the  Southern  aristocrat,  who  lords  it  over  him  as  the 
panther  does  over  the  ox,  should  transfer  (as  he  has  threatened 
many  a time)  the  cowhide  from  the  negro’s  loins  to  his  ? No  ; 
we  must  free  ourselves  ! And  there  lives  one  woman,  at  least, 
who,  having  gained  her  freedom,  knows  how  to  use  it  in  eternal 
war  against  all  tyrants.  Oh,  I could  go  down,  I think  at 
moments,  down  to  New  Orleans  itself,  with  a brain  and  lips  of 
fire,  and  speak  words — you  know  how  I could  speak  them — 
which  would  bring  me  in  a week  to  the  scourge,  perhaps  to  the 
stake.  The  scourge  I could  endure.  Have  I not  felt  it  already  ? 
Do  I not  bear  its  scars  even  now,  and  glory  in  them ; for  they 
were  won  by  speaking  as  a woman  should  speak  ? And  even 
the  fire  ? — Have  not  women  been  martyrs  already  1 and  could  not 
I be  one  ? Might  not  my  torments  madden  a people  into  man- 
hood, and  my  name  become  a war-cry  in  the  sacred  fight  ? And 
yet,  oh  my  friend,  life  is  sweet ! — and  my  little  day  has  been  so 
dark  and  gloomy  ! — may  I not  have  one  hour’s  sunshine,  ere 
youth  and  vigour  are  gone,  and  my  swift-vanishing  Southern 
womanhood  wrinkles  itself  up  into  despised  old  age  ? Oh, 
council  me, — help  me,  my  friend,  my  preserver,  my  true  master 
now,  so  brave,  so  wise,  so  all-knowing ; under  whose  mask  of 
cynicism  lies  hid  (have  I not  cause  to  know  it  T)  the  heart  of  a 

^ero*  Marie.” 


If  Miss  Heale  could  have  watched  Tom’s  face  as  he  read,  much 
more  could  she  have  heard  his  words  as  he  finished,  all  jealousy 
would  have  passed  from  her  mind  : for  as  he  read,  the  cynical 
smile  grew  sharper  and  sharper,  forming  a fit  prelude  for  the 
“ Little  fool ! ” which  was  his  only  comment. 

“ I thought  you  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  some  honest 
farmer  years  ago  : but  a martyr  you  shan’t  be,  even  if  I have  to 
send  for  you  hither ; though  how  to  get  you  bread  to  eat  I don’t 
know.  However,  you  have  been  reading  your  book,  it  seems, — 
clever  enough  you  always  were,  and  too  clever ; so  you  could  go 
out  as  governess,  or  something.  Why,  here’s  a postscript  dated 
three  months  afterwards  ! Ah,  I see  ; this  letter  was  written 


98 


THE  WAY  TO  WIN  THEM. 


last  J uly,  in  answer  to  my  Australian  one.  What’s  the  meaning 
of  this  V7  And  he  began  reading  again. 

“ I wrote  so  far ; but  I had  not  the  heart  to  send  it : it  was 
so  full  of  repiningo.  And  since  then, — must  I tell  the  truth  ? — 
I have  made  a step  ; do  not  call  it  a desperate  one  ; do  not  blame 
me,  for  your  blame  I cannot  bear  : but  I have  gone  on  the  stage. 
There  was  no  other  means  of  independence  open  to  me;  and  I 
had  a dream,  I have  it  still,  that  there,  if  anywhere,  I might  do 
my  work.  You  told  me  that  I might  become  a great  actress  : I 
have  set  my  heart  on  becoming  one ; on  learning  to  move  the 
hearts  of  men,  till  the  time  comes  when  I can  tell  them,  show 

them,  in  living  flesh  and  blood,  upon  the  stage,  the  secrets  of  a 
slave’s  sorrows,  and  that  slave  a woman.  The  time  has  not  come 
for  that  yet  here  : but  I have  had  my  success  already,  more  than  I 
could  have  expected ; and  not  only  in  Canada,  but  in  the  States. 
I have  been  at  He w York,  acting  to  crowded  houses.  Ah, 
when  they  applauded  me,  how  I longed  to  speak ! to  pour  out 

my  whole  soul  to  them,  and  call  upon  them,  as  men,  to . 

But  that  will  come  in  time.  I have  found  a friend,  who  has 
promised  to  write  dramas  especially  for  me.  Merely  republican 
ones  at  first ; in  which  I can  give  full  vent  to  my  passion,  and 
hurl  forth  the  eternal  laws  of  liberty,  which  their  consciences 
may — must — at  last,  apply  for  themselves.  Eut  soon,  he  says, 
we  shall  be  able  to  dare  to  approach  the  real  subject,  if  not  in 
America,  still  in  Europe ; and  then,  I trust,  the  coloured  actress 
will  stand  forth  as  the  championess  of  her  race,  of  all  who  are 
oppressed,  in  every  capital  in  Europe,  save,  alas  ! Italy  and  the 
Austria  who  crushes  her.  I have  taken,  I should  tell  you,  an 
Italian  name.  It  was  better,  I thought,  to  hide  my  African 
taint,  forsooth,  for  awhile.  So  the  wise  Hew  Yorkers  have 
been  feting,  as  Maria  Cordifiamma,  the  white  woman  (for  am 
I not  fairer  than  many  an  Italian  signora  ?),  whom  they  would 
have  looked  on  as  an  inferior  being  under  the  name  of  Marie 
Lavington  : though  there  is  finer  old  English  blood  running  in 
my  veins,  from  your  native  Berkshire  they  say,  than  in  any  a 
Down-Easter’s  who  hangs  upon  my  lips.  Address  me  henceforth, 

then,  as  La  Signora  Maria  Cordifiamma.  I am  learning  fast,  by 
the  bye,  to  speak  Italian.  I shall  be  at  Quebec  till  the  end  of 
the  month.  Then,  I believe,  I come  to  London ; and  we  shall 
meet  once  more  : and  I shall  thank  you,  thank  you,  thank  you, 
once  more,  for  all  your  marvellous  kindness.” 

“ Humph  !”  said  Tom,  after  a while.  “ Well,  she  is  old  enough 
to  choose  for  herself.  Eive-and-twenty  she  must  be  by  now.  . . . 
As  for  the  stage,  I suppose  it  is  the  best  place  for  her  ; better,  at 
least,  than  turning  governess,  and  going  mad,  as  she  would  do,  over 
her  drudgery  and  her  dreams.  Eut  who  is  this  friend  1,  Singing- 


AX  OLD  FOE  WITH  A NEW  FACE. 


99 


master,  scribbler,  or  political  refugee  ? or  perhaps  all  three  toge- 
ther ? A dark  lot,  those  fellows.  I must  keep  my  eye  on  him  ; 
though  it's  no  concern  of  mine.  I’ve  done  my  duty  by  the  poor 
thing ; the  devil  himself  can’t  deny  that.  But  somehow,  if  this 
play-writing  worthy  plays  her  false,  I feel  very  much  as  if  I 
should  be  fool  enough  to  try  whether  I have  forgotten  my  pistol- 
shooting.” 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN  OLD  FOE  WITH  A NEW  FACE. 

“ This  child’s  head  is  dreadfully  hot ; and  how  yellow  he  does 
look  ! ” says  Mrs.  Vavasour,  fussing  about  in  her  little  nursery. 
“ Oh,  Clara,  what  shall  I do  ? I really  dare  not  give  them  any 
more  medicine  myself ; and  that  horrid  old  Doctor  Heale  is 
worse  than  no  one.” 

“ Ah,  Ma’am,”  says  Clara,  who  is  privileged  to  bemoan  herself, 
and  to  have  sad  confidences  made  to  her,  “ if  we  were  but  in 
town  now,  to  see  Mr.  Chilvers,  or  any  one  that  could  be  trusted  ; 
but  in  this  dreadful  out-of-the-way  place — ” 

“ Don’t  talk  of  it,  Clara  ! Oh,  what  will  become  of  the  poor 
children  ?”  And  Mrs.  Vavasour  sits  down  and  cries,  as  she  does 
three  times  at  least  every  week. 

“But  indeed,  Ma’am,  if  you  thought  you  could  trust  him, 
there  is  that  new  assistant — ” 

“The  man  who  was  saved  from  the  wreck?  Why,  nobody 
knows  who  he  is.” 

“ Oh,  but  indeed,  Ma’am,  he  is  a very  nice  gentleman,  I can 
say  that ; and  so  wonderfully  clever ; and  has  cured  so  many 
people  already,  they  say,  and  got  down  a lot  of  new  medicines 
(for  he  has  great  friends  among  the  doctors  in  town),  and  such  a 
wonderful  magnifying  glass,  with  which  he  showed  me  himself, 
as  I dropped  into  the  shop  promiscous,  such  horrible  things, 
Ma’am,  in  a drop  of  water,  that  I haven’t  dared  hardly  to  wash 
my  face  since.” 

“And  what  good  will  the  magnifying  glass  do  to  us?”  says 
the  poor  little  Irish  soul,  laughing  up  through  its  tears.  “ He 
won’t  want  it  to  see  how  ill  poor  Erederick  is,  I’m  sure  ; but  you 
may  send  for  him,  Clara.” 

“ I’ll  go  myself,  Ma’am,  and  make  sure,”  says  Clara ; glad 
enough  of  a run,  and  chance  of  a chat  with  the  young  Doctor. 

And  in  half  an  hour  Mr.  Thurnall  is  announced. 

Though  Mrs.  Vavasour  has  a flannel  apron  on  (for  she  will 
wash  the  children  herself,  in  spite  of  Elsley’s  grumblings),  Tom 

h 2 


iW  AN  OLD  FOE  WITH  A NEW  FACE. 

sees  that  she  is  a lady ; and  puts  on,  accordingly,  his  very  best 
manner,  which,  as  his  experience  has  long  since  taught  him,  is  no 
manner  at  all. 

He  does  his  work  quietly  and  kindly,  and  bows  himself  out. 

“You  will  be  sure  to  send  the  medicine  immediately,  Mr. 
Thurnall.’’ 

44  I will  bring  it  myself,  Madam  ; and,  if  you  like,  administer 
it.  I think  the  young  gentleman  has  made  friends  with  me 
sufficiently  already.” 

“ Tom  keeps  his  word,  and  is  back,  and  away  again  to  his 
shop,  in  a marvellously  short  space,  having  “ struck  a fresh 
root,”  as  he  calls  it ; for — 

44  What  a very  well  behaved  sensible  man  that  Mr.  Thurnall 
is,”  says  Lucia  to  Elsley,  an  hour  after,  as  she  meets  him  coming 
in  from  the  garden,  where  he  has  been  polishing  his  “ Wreck.” 
“I  am  sure  he  understands  his  business;  he  was  so  kind  and 
quiet,  and  yet  so  ready,  and  seemed  to  know  all  the  child’s 
symptoms  beforehand,  in  such  a strange  way.  I do  hope  he’ll 
stay  here.  I feel  happier  about  the  poor  children  than  I have  for 
a long  time.” 

“ Thurnall  ? ” asks  Elsley,  who  is  too  absorbed  in  the  44  Wreck  ” 
to  ask  after  the  children  ; but  the  name  catches  his  ear. 

“ Mr.  Heale’s  new  assistant — the  man  who  was  wrecked,” 
answers  she,  too  absorbed,  in  her  turn,  in  the  children  to  notice 
her  husband’s  startled  face. 

44  Thurnall  ? Which  Thurnall  ? ” 

44  Do  you  know  the  name  ? It’s  not  a common  one,”  says  she, 
moving  to  the  door. 

44  Ho — not  a common  one  at  all ! You  said  the  children  were 
not  well  ? ’! 

44 1 am  glad  that  you  thought  of  asking  after  the  poor  things.” 

44  Why,  really,  my  dear — ” But  before  he  can  finish  his 

excuse  (probably  not  worth  hearing),  she  has  trotted  up-stairs 
again  to  the  nest,  and  is  as  busy  as  ever.  Possibly  Clara 
might  do  the  greater  part  of  what  she  does,  and  do  it  better : 
but  still,  are  they  not  her  children  ? Let  those  who  will  call  a 
mother’s  care  mere  animal  instinct,  and  liken  it  to  that  of  the 
sparrow  or  the  spider : shall  we  not  rather  call  it  a Divine  in- 
spiration, and  doubt  whether  the  sparrow  and  the  spider  must 
not  have  souls  to  be  saved,  if  they,  too,  show  forth  that  faculty  . 
of  maternal  love  which  is,  of  all  human  feelings,  most  inexplic-^ 
able  and  most  self-sacrificing ; and  therefore,  surely,  most  hea- 
venly? If  that  does  not  come  down  straight  from  heaven,  a 
44  good  and  perfect  gift,”  then  what  is  heaven,  and  what  the  gifts 
which  it  sends  down? 

But  poor  Elsley  may  have  had  solid  reasons  for  thinking  more 


AN  OLD  FOE  WITH  A NEW  FACE.. 


101 


of  the  name  of  Thnrnall  than  of  his  children’s  health  : we  will 
hope  so  for  his  sake ; for,  after  sundry  melodramatic  pacings  and 
starts,  (Elsley  was  of  a melodramatic  turn,  and  fond  of  a scene,, 
even  when  he  had  no  spectator,  not  even  a looking-glass  ;)  besides 
ejaculations  of  “ It  cannot  be  ! ” “ If  dt  were  ! ” “I  trust  not !” 
“ A fresh  ghost  to  torment  me  !”  “ When  will  come  the  end  of 

this  accursed  coil  which  I have  wound  round  my  life?”  and  so 
forth,  he  decided  aloud  that  the  suspense  was  intolerable ; and 
enclosing  himself  in  his  poetical  cloak  and  Mazzini  wide-awake, 
strode  down  to  the  town,  and  into  the  shop.  And  as  he  entered 
it,  “ his  heart  sank  to  his  midriff,  and  his  knees  below  were 
loosed.”  For  there,  making  up  pills,  in  a pair  of  brown-holland 
sleeves  of  his  own  manufacture  (for  Tom  was  a good  seamster,  as 
all  travellers  should  be),  whistled  Lilliburlero,  as  of  old,  the  Tom 
of  other  days,  which  Elsley’s  muse  would  fain  have  buried  in  a 
thousand  Lethes. 

Elsley  came  forward  to  the  counter  carelessly,  nevertheless, 
after  a moment.  “ What  with  my  beard,  and  the  lapse  of  time,” 
thought  he,  “he  cannot  know  me.”  So  he  spoke, — 

“ I understand  you  have  been  visiting  my  children,  Sir.  I 
hope  you  did  not  find  them  seriously  indisposed  ? ” 

“ Mr.  Vavasour  ?”  says  Tom,  with  a low  bow. 

“ I am  Mr.  Vavasour  !”  But  Elsley  was  a bad  actor,  and  hesi- 
tated and  coloured  so  much  as  he  spoke,  that  if  Tom  had  known 
nothing,  he  might  have  guessed  something. 

“Nothing  serious,  I assure  you,  Sir;  unless  you  are  come  to 
announce  any  fresh  symptom.” 

“ Oh,  no — not  at  all — that  is — I was  passing  on  my  way  to 
the  quay,  and  thought  it  as  well  to  have  your  own  assurance  ; 
Mrs.  Vavasour  is  so  over-anxious.” 

“You  seem  to  partake  of  her  infirmity,  Sir,”  says  Tom,  witli 
a smile  and  a bow.  “ However,  it  is  one  which  does  you  both 
honour.” 

An  awkward  pause. 

“I  hope  I am  not  taking  a liberty,  Sir;  but  I think  I am 
bound  to — ” 

“What  in  heaven  is  he  going  to  say?”  thought  Elsley  to 
himself,  feeling  very  much  inclined  to  run  away. 

“ Thank  you  for  all  the  pleasure  and  instruction  which  your 
writings  have  given  me  in  lonely  horns,  and  lonely  places  too. 
Your  first  volume  of  poems  has  been  read  by  one  man,  at  least, 
beside  wild  watch-fires  in  the  Bocky  Mountains,” 

Tom  did  not  say  that  he  pitched  the  said  volume  into  the 
river  in  disgust ; and  that  it  was,  probably,  long  since  used  up 
as  housematerial  by  the  caddis-baits  of  those  parts, — for  doubt* 
less  there  are  caddises  there  as  elsewhere. 


102  AN  OLD  FOE  WITH  A NEW  FACE. 

Poor  Elsley  rose  at  the  bait,  and  smiled  and  bowed  in  silence. 

“ I have  been  so  long  absent  from  England,  and  in  utterly 
wild  countries,  too,  that  I need  hardly  be  ashamed  to  ask  if  you 
have  written  anything  since  ‘The  Soul’s  Agonies’1?  No  doubt  if 
you  have,  I might  have  found  it  at  Melbourne,  on  my  way 
home : but  my  visit  there  was  a very  hurried  one.  However, 
the  loss  is  mine,  and  the  fault  too,  as  I ought  to  call  it.” 

“Pray  make  no  excuses,”  says  Elsley,  delighted.  “I  have 
written,  of  course.  Who  can  help  writing,  Sir,  while  Nature  is 
so  glorious,  and  man  so  wretched  ? One  cannot  but  take  refuge 
from  the  pettiness  of  the  real  in  the  contemplation  of  the  ideal. 
Yes,  I have  written.  I will  send  you  my  last  book  down.  I 
don’t  know  whether  you  will  find  me  improved.” 

“ How  can  I doubt  that  I shall  ? ” 

Saddened,  perhaps ; perhaps  more  severe  in  my  taste  ; but  we 
will  not  talk  of  that.  I owe  you  a debt,  Sir,  for  having  fur- 
nished me  with  one  of  the  most  striking  ‘ motifs  ’ I ever  had. 
I mean  that  miraculous  escape  of  yours.  It  is  seldom  enough, 
in  this  dull  every-day  world,  one  stumbles  on  such  an  incident 
ready  made  to  one’s  hands,  and  needing  only  to  be  described  as 
one  sees  it.” 

And  the  weak,  vain  man  chatted  on,  and  ended  by  telling 
Tom  all  about  his  poem  of  “The  Wreck,”  in  a tone  which 
seemed  to  imply  that  he  had  done  Tom  a serious  favour,  perhaps 
raised  him  to  immortality,  by  putting  him  in  a book. 

Tom  thanked  him  gravely  for  the  said  honour,  bowed  him  at 
last  out  of  the  shop,  and  then  vaulted  back  clean  over  the 
counter,  as  soon  as  Elsley  was  out  of  sight,  and  commenced  an 
Indian  war-dance  of  frantic  character,  accompanying  himself  by 
an  extemporary  chaunt,  with  which  the  name  of  John  Briggs 
was  frequently  intermingled; — 

“ If  I don’t  know  you,  Johnny  my  boy, 

In  spite  of  all  your  beard ; 

Why  then  I am  a slower  fellow, 

Than  ever  has  yet  appeared.  ” 

“ Oh  if  it  was  but  he  ! what  a card  for  me  ! What  a world  it 
is  for  poor  honest  rascals  like  me  to  try  a fall  with ! — 

‘ Why  didn’t  I take  bad  verse  to  make, 

And  call  it  poetry ; 

And  so  make  up  to  an  earl’s  daughter, 

Which  was  of  high  degree  ? ” 

But  perhaps  I am  wrong  after  all : no — I saw  he  knew  me, 
the  humbug ; though  he  never  was  a humbug,  never  rose 
above  the  rank  of  fool.  However,  I’ll  make  assurance  doubly 
sure,  and  then, — if  it  pays  me  not  to  tell  him  I know  him,  I 


AN  OLD  FOE  WITH  A NEW  FACE. 


103 


wont  tell  him ; and  if  it  pays  me  to  tell  him,  I will  tell  him. 
Just  as  you  choose,  my  good  Mr.  Poet.”  And  Tom  returned  to 
his  work  singing  an  extempore  parody  of  “We  met,  ’twas  in  a 
crowd,”  ending  with — 

“ And  thou  art  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my  pill-box,” 

in  a howl  so  doleful,  that  Mrs.  Heale  marched  into  the  shop, 
evidently  making  up  her  mind  for  an  explosion. 

“ I am  very  sorry,  Sir,  to  have  to  speak  to  you  upon  such  a 
subject,  but  I must  say,  that  the  profane  songs,  Sir,  which  our 
house  is  not  at  all  accustomed  to  them ; not  to  mention  that  at 
your  time  of  life,  and  in  your  position,  Sir,  as  my  husband’s 
assistant,  though  there’s  no  saying  (with  a meaning  toss  of  the 
head)  how  long  it  may  last,” — and  there,  her  grammar  having 
got  into  a hopeless  knot,  she  stopped. 

Tom  looked  at  her  cheerfully  and  fixedly.  “ I had  been  ex- 
pecting this,”  said  he  to  himself.  “ Better  show  the  old  cat  at 
once  that  I carry  claws  as  well  as  she.” 

“ There  is  saying,  Madam,  humbly  begging  your  pardon,  how 
long  my  present  engagement  will  last.  It  will  last  just  as  long 
as  I like.” 

Mrs.  Heale  boiled  over  with  rage : but  ere  the  geyser  could 
explode,  Tom  had  continued  in  that  dogged,  nasal  Yankee 
twang  which  he  assumed  when  he  was  venomous  : 

“ As  for  the  songs,  Ma’am,  there  are  two  ways  of  making  one- 
self happy  in  this  life;  you  can  judge  for  yourself  which  is 
best.  One  is  to  do  one’s  work  like  a man,  and  hum  a tune,  to 
keep  one’s  spirits  up ; the  other  is  to  let  the  work  go  to  rack 
and  ruin,  and  keep  one’s  spirits  up,  if  one  is  a gentleman,  by  a 
little  too  much  brandy ; — if  one  is  a lady,  by  a little  too  much 
laudanum.” 

“ Laudanum,  Sir  ? ” almost  screamed  Mrs.  Heale,  turning  pale 
as  death. 

“ The  pint  bottle  of  best  laudanum,  which  I had  from  town  a 
fortnight  ago,  Ma’am,  is  now  nearly  empty,  Ma’am.  I will  make 
affidavit  that  I have  not  used  a hundred  drops,  or  drunk  one.  I 
suppose  it  was  the  cat.  Cats  have  queer  tastes  in  the  West, 
I believe.  I have  heard  the  cat  coming  down  stairs  into  the 
surgery,  once  or  twice  after  I was  in  bed ; so  I set  my  door  ajar 
a little,  and  saw  her  come  up  again  : but  whether  she  had  a vial 
in  her  paws — ” 

“ Oh,  Sir  !”  says  Mrs.  Heale,  bursting  into  tears.  “And  after 
the  dreadful  toothache  which  I have  had  this  fortnight,  which 
nothing  but  a little  laudanum  would  ease  it ; and  at  my  time  of 
life,  to  mock  a poor  elderly  lady’s  infirmities,  which  I did  not 
look  for  this  cruelty  and  outrage  ! ” 


104 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA. 


“Dry  your  tears,  my  dear  madam,”  says  Tom,  in  his  most 
winning  tone.  “You  will  always  find  me  the  thorough  gentle- 
man, I am  sure.  If  I had  not  been  one,  it  would  have  been  easy 
enough  for  me,  with  my  powerful  London  connexions,- — though 
I won’t  boast, — to  set  up  in  opposition  to  your  good  husband, 
instead  of  saving  him  labour  in  his  good  old  age.  Only,  my  dear 
Madam,  how  shall  I get  the  laudanum-bottle  refilled  without  the 
Doctor’s — you  understand  V ’ 

The  wretched  old  woman  hurried  up  stairs,  and  brought  him 
down  a half-sovereign  out  of  her  private  hoard,  trembling  like  an 
aspen  leaf,  and  departed. 

“ So — scotched,  but  not  killed.  You’ll  gossip  and  lie  too. 
Never  trust  a laudanum  drinker.  You’ll  see  me,  by  the  eye  of 
imagination,  committing  all  the  seven  deadly  sins ; and  by  the 
tongue  of  inspiration  go  forth  and  proclaim  the  same  at  the  town- 
head.  I can’t  kill  you,  and  I can’t  cure  you,  so  I must  endure 
you.  What  said  old  Goethe,  in  all  the  German  I ever  cared  to 
recollect : — 

‘ Der  Wallfiscli  hat  doch  seine  Laus ; 

Muss  auch  die  meine  haben.  * 

“ Now,  then,  for  Mrs.  Penberthy’s  draughts.  I wonder  how 
that  pretty  schoolmistress  goes  on.  If  she  were  but  honest,  now, 
and  had  fifty  thousand  pounds — why  then,  she  wouldn’t  marry 
me ; and  so  why  now,  I wouldn’t  marry  she, — as  my  native 
Berkshire  grammar  would  render  it.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LA  COPtDIFIAMMA. 

This  chapter  shall  begin,  good  reader,  with  one  of  those 
startling  bursts  of  “ illustration,”  with  which  our  most  popular 
preachers  are  wont  now'  to  astonish  and  edify  their  hearers,  and 
after  starting  with  them  at  the  opening  of  the  sermon  from  the 
north-pole,  the  Crystal  Palace,  or  the  nearest  cabbage-garden, 
float  them  safe,  upon  the  gushing  stream  of  oratory,  to  the  safe 
and  well-known  shores  of  doctrinal  commonplace,  lost  in  admira- 
tion at  the  skill  of  the  good  man  who  can  thus  make  all  roads 
lead,  if  not  to  heaven,  at  least  to  strong  language  about  its 
opposite.  True,  the  logical  sequence  of  their  periods  may  be, 
like  that  of  the  coming  one,  somewhat  questionable,  reminding 
one  at  moments  of  Elueilen’s  comparison  between  Macedon  and 
Monmouth,  Henry  the  Fifth  and  Alexander  : but.  in  the  logic 


LA  C0RD1FIAMMA. 


105 


of  the  pulpit,  all’s  well  that  ends  well,  and  the  end  must  needs 
sanctify  the  means.  There  is,  of  course,  some  connexion  or  other 
between  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  or  how  would  the  uni- 
verse hold  together  1 And  if  one  has  not  time  to  find  out  the 
true  connexion,  what  is  left  but  to  invent  the  best  one  can  for 
oneself  ? Thus  argues,  probably,  the  popular  preacher,  and  fills 
his  pews,  proving  thereby  clearly  the  excellence  of  his  method. 
So  argue  also,  probably,  the  popular  poets,  to  whose  “luxuriant 
fancy  ” everything  suggests  anything,  and  thought  plays  leap-frog 
with  thought  down  one  page  and  up  the  next,  till  one  fancies 
at  moments  that  they  had  got  permission  from  the  higher  powers, 
before  looking  at  the  universe,  to  stir  it  all  up  a few  times  with 
a spoon.  It  is  notorious,  of  course,  that  poets  and  preachers  alike 
pride  themselves  upon  this  method  of  astonishing;  that  the  former 
call  it,  “ seeing  the  infinite  in  the  finite the  latter — “ pressing 
secular  matters  into  the  service  of  the  sanctuary,”  and  other 
pretty  phrases  which,  for  reverence’  sake,  shall  be  omitted.  No 
doubt  they  have  their  reasons  and  their  reward.  The  style 
takes ; the  style  pays  ; and  what  more  would  you  have  h Let 
them  go  on  rejoicing,  in  spite  of  the  cynical  pedants  in  the 
Saturday  Eeview,  who  dare  to  accuse  (will  it  be  believed1?)  these 
luminaries  of  the  age  of  talking  merely  irreverent  nonsense. 
Meanwhile,  so  evident  is  the  success  (sole  test  of  merit)  which 
has  attended  the  new  method,  that  it  is  worth  while  trying 
whether  it  will  not  be  as  taking  in  the  novel  as  it  is  in  the 
chapel ; and  therefore  the  reader  is  requested  to  pay  special 
attention  to  the  following  paragraph,  modelled  carefully  after  the 
exordiums  of  a famous  Irish  preacher,  now  drawing  crowded 
houses  at  the  West  End  of  Town.  As  thus : — “ It  is  the  pleasant 
month  of  May,  when,  as  in  old  Chaucer’s  time,  the — 

* ‘ Smale  foules  maken  melodie, 

That  slepen  alle  night  with  open  eye 
So  priketh  hem  nature  in  their  corages. 

Then  longen  folk  to  goe  on  pilgrimages, 

And  specially  from  every  shire’s  end 
Of  Englelond,  to  Exeter-hall  they  wend,” 

till  the  low  places  of  the  Strand  blossom  with  white  cravats,  those 
lilies  of  the  valley,  types  of  meekness  and  humility,  at  least  in  the 
pious  palmer — and  why  not  of  similar  virtues  in  the  undertaker,, 
the  concert-singer,  the  groom,  the  tavern- waiter,  the  croupier  at. 
the  gaming-table,  and  Erederick  Augustus  Lord  Scoutbush,  whor 
whit  e-cravat  ed  like  the  rest,  is  just  getting  into  his  cab  at  the 
door  of  the  Never-mind-what  Theatre,  to  spend  an  hour  at  Ken- 
sington before  sauntering  in  to  Lady  M ’s  ball  ? 

Why  not,  I ask,  at  least  in  the  case  of  little  Scoutbush]  For 
Guardsman  though  he  be,  coming  from  a theatre  and  going  to 


106 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA 


a ball,  there  is  meekness  and  humility  in  Him  at  this  moment, 
as  well  as  in  the  average  of  the  white-cravated  gentlemen  who 
trotted  along  that  same  pavement  about  eleven  o’clock  this  fore- 
noon. Why  should  not  his  white  cravat,  like  theirs,  be  held 
symbolic  of  that  fact  ? However,  Scoutbush  belongs  rather  to 
the  former  than  the  latter  of  Chaucer’s  categories  ; for  a “ smale 
foule  ” he  is,  a little  bird-like  fellow,  who  maketh  melodie  also, 
and  warbles  like  a cock-robin;  we  cannot  liken  him  to  any  more 
dignified  songster.  Moreover,  he  will  sleep  all  night  with  open 
eye  ; for  he  will  not  be  in  bed  till  five  to-morrow  morning  ; and 
pricked  he  is,  and  that  sorely,  in  his  courage ; for  he  is  as 
much  in  love  as  his  little  nature  can  be,  with  the  new  actress, 
La  Signora  Cordifiamma,  of  the  Hever-mind-what  Theatre. 

How  exquisitely,  now  (for  this  is  one  of  the  rare  occasions 
in  which  a man  is  permitted  to  praise  himself),  is  established 
hereby  an  unexpected  bond  of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out 
between  things  which  had,  ere  they  came  beneath  the  magic 
touch  of  genius,  no  more  to  do  with  each  other  than  this  book 
has  with  the  Stock  Exchange.  Who  would  have  dreamed  of 
travelling  from  the  Tabard  in  Southwark  to  the  last  new  singer, 
via  Exeter-hall  and  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  and  touching  en 
passant  on  two  cardinal  virtues  and  an  Irish  Viscount?  But 
see ; given  only  a little  impudence,  and  less  logic,  and  hey 
presto  ! the  thing  is  done;  and  all  that  remains  to  be  done  is 
to  dilate  (as  the  Bev.  Dionysius  O’Blareaway  would  do  at  this 
stage  of  the  process)  upon  the  moral  question  which  has  been  so 
cunningly  raised,  and  to  inquire,  firstly, — how  the  virtues  of 
meekness  and  humility  could  be  predicated  of  Erederick  Au- 
gustus St.  Just,  Viscount  Scoutbush  and  Baron  Torytown,  in 
the  peerage  of  Ireland ; and  secondly, — how  those  virtues  were 
called  into  special  action  by  his  questionably  wise  attachment 
to  a new  actress,  to  whom  he  had  never  spoken  a word  in 
his  life. 

Eirst,  then,  “ Little  Ereddy  Scoutbush,”  as  his  compeers  irre- 
verently termed  him,  was,  by  common  consent  of  her  Majesty’s 
Guards,  a “good  fellow.”  Whether  the  St.  James’  Street  defi- 
nition of  that  adjective  be  the  perfect  one  or  not,  we  will  not 
stay  to  inquire ; but  in  the  Guards’  club-house  it  meant  this  • 
that  Scoutbush  had  not  an  enemy  in  the  world,  because  he 
deserved  none  ; that  he  lent,  and  borrowed  not ; gave,  and 
asked  not  again ; envied  not ; hustled  not ; slandered  not ; 
never  bore  malice,  never  said  a cruel  word,  never  played  a 
dirty  trick,  would  hear  a fellow’s  troubles  out  to  the  end,  and 
if  he  could  not  counsel,  at  least  would  not  laugh  at  them,  and 
at  all  times  and  in  all  places  lived  and  let  live,  and  was  accord- 
ingly a general  favourite.  His  morality  was  neither  better  nor 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA. 


107 


Worse  than  the  average  of  his  companions  ; hut  if  he  was 
sensual,  he  was  at  least  not  base ; and  there  were  frail  women 
who  blessed  “ little  Freddy,”  and  his  shy  and  secret  generosity, 
from  having  saved  them  from  the  lowest  pit. 

An  reste,  he  was  idle,  frivolous,  useless : but  with  these  two 
palliating  facts,  that  he  knew  it,  and  regretted  it ; and  that  he 
never  had  a chance  of  being  aught  else.  His  father  and  mother 
had  died  when  he  was  a child.  He  had  been  sent  to  Eton  at 
seven,  where  he  learnt  nothing,  and  into  the  Guards  at  seven- 
teen, where  he  learnt  less  than  nothing.  His  aunt,  old'  lady 
Knockdown,  who  was  a kind  old  Irish  woman,  an  ex- blue  and 
ex-beauty,  now  a high  Evangelical  professor,  but  as  worldly  as 
her  neighbours  in  practice,  had  tried  to  make  him  a good  boy 
in  old  times  : but  she  had  given  him  up,  long  before  he  left 
Eton,  as  a “vessel  of  wrath  ” (which  he  certainly  was,  with  his 
hot  Irish  temper) ; and  since  then  she  had  only  spoken  of  him 
with  moans,  and  to  him  just  as  if  he  and  she  had  made  a com- 
pact to  be  as  worldly  as  they  could,  and  as  if  the  fact  that  he 
was  going,  as  she  used  to  tell  her  private  friends,  straight  to  the 
wrong  place,  was  to  be  utterly  ignored  before  the  pressing  reality 
of  getting  him  and  his  sisters  well  married.  And  so  it  befel, 
that  Lady  Knockdown,  like  many  more,  having  begun  with  too 
high  (or  at  least  precise)  a spiritual  standard,  was  forced  to  end 
practically  in  having  no  standard  at  all ; and  that  for  ten  years 
of  Scoutbush’s  life,  neither  she  nor  any  other  human  being  had 
spoken  to  him  as  if  he  had  a soul  to  be  saved,  or  any  duty  on 
earth  save  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry. 

And  all  the  while  there  was  a quaint  and  pathetic  conscious- 
ness in  the  little  man’s  heart  that  he  was  meant  for  some- 
thing better ; that  he  was  no  fool,  and  was  not  intended  to  be 
one.  He  would  thrust  his  head  into  lectures  at  the  Polytechnic 
and  the  British  Institution,  with  a dim  endeavour  to  guess  what 
they  were  all  about,  and  a good-natured  envy  of  the  clever 
fellows  who  knew  about  “ science,  and  all  that.”  He  would  sit 
and  listen,  puzzled  and  admiring,  to  the  talk  of  statesmen,  and 
confide  his  woe  afterwards  to  some  chum. — “ Ah,  if  I had  had 
the  chance  now  thaf  my  cousin  Chalkclere  has  ! If  I had  had 
two  or  three  tutors,  and  a good  mother,  too,  keeping  me  in 
a coop,  and  cramming  me  with  learning,  as  they  cram  chickens 
for  the  market,  I fancy  I could  have  shown  my  comb  and 
hackles  in  the  House  as  well  as  some  of  them.  I fancy  I could 
make  a speech  in  parliament  now,  with  the  help  of  a little  Irish 
impudence,  if  I only  knew  anything  to  speak  about.” 

So  Scoutbush  clung,  in  a childish  way,  to  any  superior  man 
who  would  take  notice  of  him,  and  not  treat  him  as  the  fribble 
which  he  seemed.  He  had  taken  to  that  well-known  artist, 


108 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA. 


Claude  Mellot,  of  late,  simply  from  admiration  of  liis  "brilliant 
talk  about  art  and  poetry ; and  boldly  confessed  that  he  pre- 
ferred one  of  Mellot’s  orations  on  the  sublime  and  beautiful, 
though  he  didn't  understand  a word  of  them,  to  the  songs  and 
jokes  (very  excellent  ones  in  their  way)  of  Mr.  Hector  Hark- 
away,  the  distinguished  Irish  novelist,  and  boon  companion  of 
her  Majesty's  Life  Guards  Green.  His  special  intimate  and 
Mentor,  however,  was  a certain  Major  Campbell,  of  whom  more 
hereafter  ; who,  however,  being  a lofty-minded  and  perhaps 
somewhat  Pharisaic  person,  made  heavier  demands  on  Scout- 
bush's  conscience  than  he  had  yet  been  able  to  meet ; for  fully 
as  he  agreed  that  Hercules'  choice  between  pleasure  and  virtue 
was  the  right  one,  still  he  could  not  yet  follow  that  ancient  hero 
along  the  thorny  path,  and  confined  his  conception  of  “duty" 
to  the  minimum  guard  and  drill.  He  had  estates  in  Ireland, 
which  had  almost  cleared  themselves  during  his  long  minority, 
but  which,  since  the  famine,  had  cost  him  about  as  much  as 
they  brought  him  in ; and  estates  in  the  West,  which,  with 
a Welsh  slate-quarry,  brought  him  in  some  seven  or  eight 
thousand  a-year ; and  so  kept  his  poor  little  head  above  water, 
to  look  pitifully  round  the  universe,  longing  for  the  life  of  him 
to  make  out  what  it  all  meant,  and  hoping  that  somebody  would 
come  and  tell  him. 

So  much  for  his  meekness  and  humility  in  general ; as  for  the 
particular  display  of  those  virtues  which  he  has  shown  to-day,  it 
must  be  understood  that  he  has  given  a promise  to  Mrs.  Mellot 
not  to  make  love  to  La  Cordifiamma ; and,  on  that  only  con- 
dition, has  been  allowed  to  meet  her  to-night  at  one  of  Claude 
Mellot’s  petits  soupers. 

La  Cordifiamma  has  been  staying,  ever  since  she  came  to 
England,  with  the  Mellots  in  the  wilds  of  Brompton ; unap- 
proachable there,  as  in  all  other  places.  In  public,  she  is  a very 
Zenobia,  who  keeps  all  animals  of  the  other  sex  at  an  awful 
distance ; and  of  the  fifty  young  puppies  who  are  raving  about 
her  beauty,  her  air,  and  her  voice,  not  one  has  obtained  an  intro- 
duction; while  Claude,  whose  studio  used  to  be  a favourite 
lounge  of  young  Guardsmen,  has,  as  civilly  as  he  can,  closed  his 
doors  to  those  magnificent  personages  ever  since  the  new  singer 
became  his  guest. 

Claude  Mellot  seems  to  have  come  in  to  a fortune  of  late  years, 
large  enough,  at  least,  for  his  few  wants.  He  paints  no  longer, 
save  when  he  chooses ; and  has  taken  a little  old  house  in  one 
of  those  back  lanes  of  Brompton,  where  islands  of  primaeval 
nursery  garden  still  remain  undevoured  by  the  advancing  surges 
of  the  brick  and  mortar  deluge.  There  he  lives,  happy  in  a green 
lawn,  and  windows  opening  thereon ; in  three  elms,  a cork,  an 


IjA  cordifiamma. 


109 


ilex,  and  a mulberry,  with  a great  standard  pear,  for  flower  and 
foliage  the  queen  of  all  suburban  trees.  There  he  lies  on  the 
lawn,  upon  strange  skins,  the  summer’s  day,  playing  with  cats 
and  dogs,  and  making  love  to  his  Sabina,  who  has  not  lost  her 
beauty  in  the  least,  though  she  is  on  the  wrong  side  of  five-and- 
thirty.  He  deludes  himself,  too,  into  the  belief  that  he  is  doing 
something,  because  he  is  writing  a treatise  on  the  “ Principles 
of  Beauty;”  which  will  be  published,  probably,  about  the  time 
the  Thames  is  purified,  in  the  season  of  Latter  Lammas  and 
the  Greek  Kalends ; and  the  more  certainly  so,  because  he  has 
wandered  into  the  abyss  of  conic  sections  and  curves  of  double 
curvature,  of  which,  if  the  truth  must  be  spoken,  he  knows  no 
more  than  his  friends  of  the  Life  Guards  Green. 

To  this  charming  little  nest  has  Lord  Scoutbush  procured  an 
evening’s  admission  after  abject  supplication  to  Sabina,  who  pets 
him  because  he  is  musical,  and  solemn  promises  neither  to  talk 
or  look  any  manner  of  foolishness. 

.“My  dearest  Mrs.  Mellot,”  says  the  poor  wretch,  “ I will  be 
good,  indeed  I will ; I will  not  even  speak  to  her.  Only  let  me 
sit  and  look, — and — and, — why,  I thought  you  understood  all 
about  such  things,  and  could  pity  a poor  fellow  who  was 
spoony.” 

And  Sabina,  who  prides  herself  much  on  understanding  such 
things,  and  on  having,  indeed,  reduced  them  to  a science  in 
which  she  gives  gratuitous  lessons  to  all  young  gentlemen  and 
ladies  of  her  acquaintance,  receives  him  pityingly,  in  that  deli- 
cious little  back  drawing-room,  whither  whosoever  enters  is  in 
no  hurry  to  go  out  again. 

Claude’s  house  is  arranged  with  his  usual  defiance  of  all  con- 
ventionalities. Dining  or  drawing-room  proper  there  is  none ; 
the  large  front  room  is  the  studio,  where  he  and  Sabina  eat  and 
drink,  as  well  as  work  and  paint : but  out  of  it  opens  a little 
room,  the  walls  of  which  are  so  covered  with  gems  of  art  (where 
the  rogue  finds  money  to  buy  them  is  a puzzle),  that  the  eye  can 
turn  nowhere  without  taking  in  some  new  beauty,  and  wandering 
on  from  picture  to  statue,  from  portrait  to  landscape,  dreaming 
and  learning  afresh  after  every  glance.  At  the  back,  a glass  bay 
has  been  thrown  out,  and  forms  a little  conservatory,  for  ever 
fresh  and  gay  with  tropic  ferns  and  flowers;  gaudy  orchids 
dangle  from  the  roof,  creepers  hide  the  frame-work,  and  you 
hardly  see  where  the  room  ends,  and  the  winter-garden  begins ; 
and  in  the  centre  an  ottoman  invites  you  to  lounge.  It  costs 
Claude  money,  doubtless;  but  he  has  his  excuse, — “Having 
once  seen  the  tropics,  I cannot  live  without  some  love-tokens 
from  their  lost  paradises  ; and  which  is  the  wiser  plan,  to  spend 
money  on  a horse  and  brougham,  which  we  don’t  care  to  use. 


110 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA. 


and  on  scrambling  into  society  at  the  price  of  one  great  stupid 
party  a year,  or  to  make  our  little  world  as  pretty  as  we  can, 
and  let  those  who  wish  to  see  us,  take  us  as  they  find  us '?  ” 

In  this  “ nest,”  as  Claude  and  Sabina  call  it,  sacred  to  the 
everlasting  billing  and  cooing  of  that  sweet  little  pair  of  human 
love-birds  who  have  built  it,  was  supper  set.  La  Cordifiamma, 
all  the  more  beautiful  from  the  languor  produced  by  the  excite- 
ment of  acting,  lay  upon  a sofa ; Claude  attended,  talking 
earnestly;  Sabina,  according  to  her  custom,  was  fluttering  in 
and  out,  and  arranging  supper  with  her  own  hands ; both  hus- 
band and  wife  were  as  busy  as  bees  ; and  yet  any  one  accustomed 
to  watch  the  little  ins  and  outs  of  married  life,  could  have  seen 
that  neither  forgot  for  a moment  that  the  other  was  in  the  room, 
but  basked  and  purred,  like  two  blissful  cats,  each  in  the  sun- 
shine of  the  other’s  presence ; and  he  could  have  seen,  too,  that 
La  Cordifiamma  was  divining  their  thoughts,  and  studying  all 
their  little  expressions,  perhaps  that  she  might  use  them  on  the 
stage ; perhaps,  too,  happy  in  sympathy  with  their  happiness  : 
and  yet  there  was  a shade  of  sadness  on  her  forehead. 

Scoutbush  enters,  is  introduced,  and  receives  a salutation  from 
the  actress  haughty  and  cold  enough  to  check  the  forwardest ; 
puts  on  the  air  of  languid  nonchalance  which  is  considered  (or 
was  before  the  little  experiences  of  the  Crimea)  fit  and  proper 
for  young  gentlemen  of  rank  and  fashion.  So  he  sits  down, 
and  feasts  his  foolish  eyes  upon  his  idol,  hoping  for  a few  words 
before  the  evening  is  over.  Did  I not  say  well,  then,  that  there 
was  as  much  meekness  and  humility  under  Scoutbush’s  white 
cravat  as  under  others  h But  his  little  joy  is  soon  dashed ; for 
the  black  boy  announces  (seemingly  much  to  his  own  pleasure)  a 
tall  personage,  whom,  from  his  dress  and  his  moustachio,  Scout- 
bush  takes  for  a Frenchman,  till  he  hears  him  called  Stangrave. 
The  intruder  is  introduced  to  Lord  Scoutbush,  which  ceremony 
is  consummated  by  a microscopic  nod  on  either  side  ; he  then 
walks  straight  up  to  La  Cordifiamma ; and  Scoutbush  sees  her 
cheeks  flush  as  he  does  so.  He  takes  her  hand,  speaks  to  her  in 
a low  voice,  and  sits  down  by  her,  Claude  making  room  for  him  ; 
and  the  two  engage  earnestly  in  conversation. 

Scoutbush  is  much  inclined  to  walk  out  of  the  room ; — was 
he  brought  there  to  see  that  1 Of  course,  however,  he  sits  still, 
keeps  his  own  counsel,  and  makes  himself  agreeable  enough  all 
the  evening,  like  a good-natured  kind-hearted  little  man,  as  he 
is.  Whereby  he  is  repaid ; for  the  conversation  soon  becomes 
deep,  and  even  too  deep  for  him ; and  he  is  fain  to  drop  out  of 
the  race,  and  leave  it  to  his  idol  and  to  the  new-comer,  who 
seems  to  have  seen,  and  done,  and  read  everything  in  heaven  and 
earth,  and  probably  bought  everything  also ; not  to  mention  that 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA. 


Ill 


he  would  be  happy  to  sell  the  said  universe  again,  at  a very 
cheap  price,  if  any  one  would  kindly  take  it  off  his  hands.  Not 
that  he  boasts,  or  takes  any  undue  share  of  the  conversation  ; he 
is  evidently  too  well  bred  for  that ; but  every  sentence  shows 
an  acquaintance  with  facts  of  which  Eton  has  told  Scoutbush 
nothing,  the  barrack-room  less,  and  after  which  he  still  craves, 
the  good  little  fellow,  in  a very  honest  way,  and  would  soon 
have  learnt,  had  he  had  a chance ; for  of  native  Irish  smartness 
he  had  no  lack. 

“ Poor  Elake  was  half  mad  about  you,  Signora,  in  the  stage- 
box  to-night,”  said  Sabina.  “ He  says  that  he  shall  not  sleep 
till  he  has  painted  you.” 

44  Do  let  him ! ” cried  Scoutbush  : 44  what  a picture  he  will 
make ! ” 

“ He  may  paint  a picture,  but  not  me ; it  is  quite  enough, 
Lord  Scoutbush,  to  be  some  one  else  for  two  hours  every  night, 
without  going  down  to  posterity,  as  some  one  else  for  ever.  If 
I am  painted,  I will  be  painted  by  no  one  who  cannot  represent 
my  very  self.” 

u You  are  right ! ” said  Stangrave  ; 44  and  you  will  do  the  man 
himself  good  by  refusing ; he  has  some  notion  still  of  what  a 
portrait  ought  to  be.  If  he  once  begins  by  attempting  passing 
expressions  of  passion,  which  is  all  stage  portraits  can  give,  he 
will  find  them  so  much  easier  than  honest  representations  of 
character,  that  he  will  end,  where  all  our  moderns  seem  to  do,  in 
merest  melodrama.” 

“ Explain  ! ” said  she. 

44  Portrait  painters  now  depend  for  their  effect  on  the  mere 
accidents  of  the  entourage;  on  dress,  on  landscape,  even  on  broad 
hints  of  a man’s  occupation,  putting  a plan  on  the  engineer’s 
table,  and  a roll  in  the  statesman’s  hands,  like  the  old  Greek 
who  wrote  4 this  is  an  ox  ’ under  his  picture.  If  they  wish  to 
give  the  face  expression,  though  they  seldom  aim  so  high,  all 
they  can  compass  is  a passing  emotion  ; and  one  sitter  goes  down 
to  posterity  with  an  eternal  frown,  another  with  an  eternal 
smile.” 

44  Or,  if  he  be  a poet,”  said  Sabina,  44  rolls  his  eye  for  ever  in  a 
fine  frenzy.” 

44  But  would  you  forbid  them  to  paint  passion  ? ” 

44  Not  in  its  place ; when  the  picture  gives  the  causes  of  the 
passion,  and  the  scene  tells  its  own  story.  But  then  let  us  not 
have  merely  Kean  as  Hamlet,  but  Hamlet’s  self;  let  the  painter 
sit  down  and  conceive  for  himself  a Hamlet,  such  as  Shakspeare 
conceived ; not  merely  give  us  as  much  of  him  as  could  be  pressed 
at  a given  moment  into  the  face  of  Mr.  Kean.  He  will  be  only 
unjust  to  both  actor  and  character.  If  Elake  paints  Marie  as 


112 


LA  CORD  IF]  AM  M A. 


Lady  Macbeth,  he  will  give  us  neither  her  nor  Lady  Macbeth ; 
but  only  the  single  point  at  which  their  two  characters  can 
coincide.” 

“ How  rude  ! ” said  Sabina,  laughing  ; “ what  is  he  doing  but 
hinting  that  La  Signora’s  conception  of  Lady  Macbeth  is  a very 
partial  and  imperfect  one  ? ” 

“ And  why  should  it  not  be?”  asked  the  actress,  humbly 
enough. 

“ I meant,”  he  answered,  warmly,  “ that  there  was  more,  far 
more  in  her  than  in  any  character  which  she  assumes  ; and  I do 
not  want  a painter  to  copy  only  one  aspect,  and  let  a part  go 
down  to  posterity  as  a representation  of  the  whole.” 

“ If  you  mean  that,  you  shall  be  forgiven.  Ho  ; when  she  is 
painted,  she  shall  be  painted  as  herself,  as  she  is  now.  Claude 
shall  paint  her.” 

“ I have  not  known  La  Signora  long  enough,”  said  Claude, 
“ to  aspire  to  such  an  honour.  I paint  no  face  which  I have 
not  studied  for  a year.” 

“Faith!”  said  Scoutbush,  “you  would  find  no  more  in  most 
faces  at  the  year’s  end,  than  you  did  the  first  day.” 

“ Then  I would  not  paint  them.  If  I paint  a portrait,  which 
I seldom  do,  I wish  to  make  it  such  a one  as  the  old  masters 
aimed  at, — to  give  the  sum  total  of  the  whole  character ; traces 
of  every  emotion,  if  it  were  possible,  and  glances  of  every  ex- 
pression which  have  passed  over  it  since  it  was  born  into  the 
world.  They  are  all  here,  the  whole  past  and  future  of  the  man ; 
and  every  man,  as  the  Mohammedans  say,  carries  his  destiny  on 
his  forehead.” 

“But  who  has  eyes  to  see  it  ?” 

“ The  old  masters  had ; some  of  them  at  least.  Raphael  had  ; 
Sebastian  del  Piombo  had  ; and  Titian,  and  Giorgione.  There 
are  portraits  painted  by  them  which  carry  a whole  life-history 
concentrated  into  one  moment.”  , 

“ But  they,”  said  Stangrave,  “ are  the  portraits  of  men  such 
as  they  saw  around  them  ; natures  who  were  strong  for  good  and 
evil,  who  were  not  ashamed  to  show  their  strength.  Where  will 
a painter  find  such  among  the  poor,  thin,  unable  mortals  who 
come  to  him  to  buy  immortality  at  a hundred  and  fifty  guineas 
apiece,  after  having  spent  their  lives  in  religiously  rubbing  off 
their  angles  against  each  other,  and  forming  their  characters,  as 
you  form  shot,  by  shaking  them  together  in  a bag  till  they  have 
polished  each  other  into  dullest  uniformity  ?” 

“ It’s  very  true,”  said  Scoutbush,  who  suffered  much  at  times 
from  a certain  wild  Irish  vein,  which  stirred  him  up  to  kick 
over  the  traces.  “ People  are  horribly  like  each  other ; and  if  a 
poor  fellow  is  bored,  and  tries  to  do  anything  spicy  or  original,  he 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA.  113 

has  half-a-dozen  people  pooh-poohing  him  down  on  the  score  of 
bad  taste.” 

“ Men  can  "bo  just  as  original  now  as  ever,”  said  La  Signora, 
“if  they  had  but  the  courage,  even  the  insight.  Heroic  souls  in 
old  times  had  no  more  opportunities  than  we  have  : but  they  used 
them.  There  were  daring  deeds  to  be  done  then — are  there  none 
now?  Sacrifices  to  be  made — are  there  none  now'  ? Wrongs  to 
be  redressed — are  there  none  now'  ? Let  any  one  set  his  heart, 
in  these  days,  to  do  what  is  right,  and  nothing  else ; and  it  will 
not  be  long  ere  his  brow  is  stamped  with  all  that  goes  to  make 
up  the  heroical  expression — with  noble  indignation,  noble  self- 
restraint,  great  hopes,  great  sorrows  : perhaps,  even,  with  the 
print  of  the  martyr’s  crown  of  thorns.” 

She  looked  at  Stangrave  as  she  spoke,  with  an  expression 
which  Scoutbush  tried  in  vain  to  read.  The  American  made  no 
answer,  and  seemed  to  hang  his  head  awhile.  After  a minute 
he  said  tenderly  : — 

“You  will  tire  yourself  if  you  talk  thus,  after  the  evening’s 
fatigue.  Mrs.  Mellot  will  sing  to  us,  and  give  us  leisure  to  think 
over  our  lesson.” 

And  Sabina  sang;  and  then  Lord  Scoutbush  was  made  to 
sing  ; and  sang  his  best,  no  doubt. 

So  the  evening  slipt  on,  till  it  was  past  eleven  o’clock,  and 
Stangrave  rose.  “ And  now,”  said  he,  “ I must  go  to  Lady 
M ’s  ball ; and  Marie  must  rest.” 

As  he  went,  he  just  leaned  over  La  Cordifiamma. 

“ Shall  I come  in  to-morrow  morning  ? We  ought  to  read  over 
that  scene  together  before  the  rehearsal.” 

“ Early  then,  or  Sabina  will  be  gone  out ; and  she  must  play 
soubrette  to  our  hero  and  heroine.” 

“ You  will  rest  ? Mrs.  Mellot,  you  will  see  that  she  does  not 
sit  up.” 

“ It  is  not  very  polite  to  rob  us  of  her,  as  soon  as  you  cannot 
enjoy  her  yourself.” 

“ I must  take  care  of  people  who  do  'aot  take  care  of  them- 
selves ; ” and  Stangrave  departed. 

Great  was  Scoutbush’s  wrath  when  he  saw  Marie  rise  and  obey 
orders.  “ Who  was  this  man  ? what  right  had  he  to  command 
her?” 

He  asked  as  much  of  Sabina  the  moment  La  Cordifiamma  had 
retired. 

“ Are  you  not  going  to  Lady  M ’s,  too  ?” 

“ Ho  ; that  is,  I won’t  go  yet ; not  till  you  have  explained  all 
this  to  me.” 

“Explained  what?”  asked  Sabina,  looking  as  demure  as  a 

little  brown  mouse. 

* 


1 


114 


LA  CORDIFI AMM A . 


“ Why,  what  did  you  ask  me  here  for  ?” 

“ Lord  Scoutbush  should  recollect  that  he  asked  himself.” 
“You  cruel  venomous  creature  ! do  you  think  I would  have 
come,  if  I had  known  that  I was  to  see  another  man  making  love 
to  her  before  my  very  eyes  ? I could  kill  the  fellow ; — who 
is  he?” 

“A  New  York  merchant,  unworthy  of  your  aristocratic  powder 
and  ball.” 

“ The  confounded  Yankee  !”  muttered  Scoutbush. 

“ If  people  swear  in  my  house,  I fine  them  a dozen  of  kid- 
gloves.  Did  you  not  promise  me  that  you  would  not  make  love 
to  her  yourself.” 

“ Well — but,  it  is  too  cruel  of  you,  before  my  very  eyes.” 

“ I saw  no  love-making  to-night.” 

“ None  ? Were  you  blind  ?” 

“Not  in  the  least ; but  you  cannot  well  see  a thing  making 
which  has  been  made  long  ago,” 

“ What ! Is  he  her  husband  ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Engaged  to  her  ?” 

“ No.” 

“ What  then  ! ” 

“ Don’t  you  know  already  that  this  is  a house  of  mystery,  full 
of  mysterious  people  ? I tell  you  this  only,  that  if  she  ever 
marries  any  one,  she  will  marry  him  ; and  that  if  I can,  I will 
make  her.” 

“ Then  you  are  my  enemy  after  all.” 

“ I ! Do  you  think  that  Sabina  Mellot  can  see  a young 
viscount  loose  upon  the  universe,  without  trying  to  make  up  a 
match  for  him  ? No ; I have  such  a prize  for  you, — young, 
handsome,  better  educated  than  any  woman  whom  you  will  meet 
to-night.  True,  she  is  a Manchester  girl : but  then  she  has 
eighty  thousand  pounds.” 

“Eighty  thousand  nonsense?  I’d  sooner  have  that  divine 
creature  without  a penny,  than — ” 

“ And  would  my  lord  viscount  so  far  debase  himself  as  to 
marry  an  actress  ? ” 

“ Humph  ! Eaith,  my  grandmother  was  an  actress  ; and  we 
St.  Justs  are  none  the  worse  for  that  fact,  as  far  as  I can  see, — 
and  certainly  none  the  uglier — the  women  at  least.  Oh  Sabina 
— Mrs.  Mellot,  I mean — only  help  me  this  once  ! ” 

“ This  once  ? Do  you  intend  to  marry  by  my  assistance  this 
time,  and  by  your  own  the  next  ? How  many  viscountesses  are 
there  to  be  ? ” 

“ Don’t  laugh  at  me,  you  cruel  woman  : you  don’t  know  ; you 
fancy  that  I am  not  in  love — ” and  the  poor  fellow  began  pouring 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA. 


115 


out  these  common-places,  which  one  has  heard  too  often  to  take 
the  trouble  of  repeating,  and  yet  which  are  real  enough,  and 
pathetic  too ; for  in  every  man,  however  frivolous,  or  even 
worthless,  love  calls  up  to  the  surface  the  real  heroism,  the  real 
depth  of  character — all  the  more  deep  because  common  to  poet 
and  philosopher,  guardsman  and  country  clod. 

“ 111  leave  town  to-morrow.  I’ll  go  to  the  Land’s-end, — to 
Norway, — to  Africa — ” 

“ And  forget  her  in  the  bliss  of  lion-hunting.” 

“ Don’t,  I tell  you;  here  I will  not  stay  to  be  driven  mad. 
To  think  that  she  is  here,  and  that  hateful  Yankee  at  her  elbow. 
I’ll  go-” 

“To  Lady  M ’s  ball  i” 

“No,  confound  it ; to  meet  that  fellow  there  ! I should 
quarrel  with  him,  as  sure  as  there  is  hot  Irish  blood  in  my  veins. 
The  self-satisfied  puppy  ! to  be  flirting  and  strutting  there,  while 
such  a creature  as  that  is  lying  thinking  of  him.” 

“ Would  you  have  him  shut  himself  up  in  his  hotel,  and  write 
poetry  ; or  walk  the  streets  all  night,  sighing  at  the  moon  1 ” 

“ No  ; but  the  cool  way  in  which  he  went  off  himself,  and 
sent  her  to  bed.  Confound  him  ! commanding  her.  It  made 
my  blood  boil.” 

“ Claude,  get  Lord  Scoutbush  some  iced  soda-water.” 

“ If  you  laugh  at  me,  I’ll  never  speak  to  you  again.” 

“ Or  buy  any  of  Claude’s  pictures  h ” 

“ Why  do  you  torment  me  so  ? I’ll  go,  I say, — leave  town 
to-morrow, — only  I can’t  with  this  horrid  depot  work  ! What 
shall  I do?  It’s  too  cruel  of  you,  while  Campbell  is  away  in 
Ireland,  too  ; and  I have  not  a soul  but  you  to  ask  advice  of,  for 
Valencia  is  as  great  a goose  as  I am and  the  poor  little  fellow 
buried  his  hands  in  his  mirls,  and  stared  fiercely  into  the  fire,  as 
if  to  draw  from  thence  omens  of  his  love,  by  the  spodomantic 
augury  of  the  ancient  Greeks ; while  Sabina  tripped  up  and 
down  the  room,  putting  things  to  rights  for  the  night,  and  en- 
joying his  torments  as  a cat  does  those  of  the  mouse  between 
her  paws  ; and  yet  not  out  of  spite,  but  from  pure  and  simple 
fun. 

Sabina  is  one  of  those  charming  bodies  who  knows  everybody’s 
business,  and  manages  it.  She  lives  in  a world  of  intrigue,  but 
without  a thought  of  intriguing  for  her  own  benefit.  She  has 
always  a match  to  make,  a disconsolate  lover  to  comfort,  a young 
artist  to  bring  forward,  a refugee  to  conceal,  a spendthrift  to  get 
out  of  a scrape ; and,  like  David  in  the  mountains,  “ every  one 
that  is  discontented,  and  every  one  that  is  in  debt,  gather  them- 
selves to  her.”  The  strangest  people,  on  the  strangest  errands, 
run  over  each  other  in  that  cosy  little  nest  of  hers.  Line  ladies 


116 


LA  CORDIFIAMMA. 


with  over-full  hearts,  and  seedy  gentlemen  with  over-empty 
pockets,  jostle  each  other  at  her  door  ; and  she  has  a smile,  and 
a repartee,  and  good,  cunning,  practical  wisdom  for  each  and 
every  one  of  them,  and  then  dismisses  them  to  hill  and  coo  with 
Claude,  and  laugh  over  everybody  and  everything.  The  only 
price  which  she  demands  for  her  services  is,  to  be  allowed  to 
laugh  ; and  if  that  be  permitted,  she  will  be  as  busy,  and  earnest, 
and  tender,  as  Saint  Elizabeth  herself.  “ I have  no  children  of 
my  own,”  she  says,  “so  I just  make  everybody  my  children, 
Claude  included ; and  play  with  them,  and  laugh  at  them,  and 
pet  them,  and  help  them  out  of  their  scrapes,  just  as  I should  if 
they  were  in  my  own  nursery.”  And  so  it  befalls  that  she  is 
every  one’s  confidant ; and  though  every  one  seems  on  the  point 
of  taking  liberties  with  her,  yet  no  one  does ; partly  because  they 
are  in  her  power,  and  partly  because,  like  an  Eastern  sultana,  she 
carries  a poniard,  and  can  use  it,  though  only  in  self-defence.  So, 
if  great  people,  or  small  people  either,  (who  can  give  themselves 
airs  as  well  as  their  betters,)  take  her  plain  speaking  unkindly, 
she  just  speaks  a little  more  plainly,  once  for  all,  and  goes  off 
smiling  to  some  one  else  ; as  a hummingbird,  if  a flower  has  no 
honey  in  it,  whirs  away,  with  a saucy  flirt  of  its  pretty  little  tail, 
to  the  next  branch  on  the  bush. 

I must  know  more  of  this  American,”  said  Scoutbush,  at  last. 
“ Well,  he  would  be  very  improving  company  for  you ; and  I 
know  you  like  improving  company.” 

“ I mean — what  has  he  to  do  with  her  ]” 

“ That  is  just  what  I will  not  tell  you.  One  thing  I will  tell 
you,  though,  for  it  may  help  to  quench  any  vain  hopes  on  your 
part ; and  that  is,  the  reason  which  she  gives  for  not  marrying 
him.” 

“Well]” 

“ Because  he  is  an  idler.” 

“ What  would  she  say  of  me,  then  ]”  groaned  Scoutbush. 

“ Yery  true  ; for,  you  must  understand,  this  Mr.  Stangrave  is 
not  what  you  or  I should  call  an  idle  man.  He  has  travelled 
over  half  the  world,  and  made  the  best  use  of  his  eyes.  He  has 
filled  his  house  in  Hew  York,  they  say,  with  gems  of  art  gathered 
from  every  country  in  Europe.  He  is  a finished  scholar  ; talks 
half-a-dozen  different  languages,  sings,  draws,  writes  poetry,  reads 
hard  every  day,  at  every  subject,  from  gardening  to  German 
metaphysics — altogether,  one  of  the  most  highly  cultivated  men 
I know,  and  quite  an  Admirable  Crichton  in  his  way.” 

“ Then  why  does  she  call  him  an  idler]” 

“ Because,  she  says,  he  has  no  great  purpose  in  life.  She  will 
marry  no  one  who  will  not  devote  himself,  and  all  he  has,  to 
some  great,  chivalrous,  heroic  enterprise ; whose  one  object  is  to 


LA  CORDIFI AMM  A . 


117 


be  of  use,  even  if  he  has  to  sacrifice  his  life  to  it.  She  says  that 
there  must  he  such  men  still  left  in  the  world ; and  that  if  she 
finds  one,  him  she  will  marry,  and  no  one  else.” 

“ Why,  there  are  none  such  to  he  found  now-a-days,  I 
thought  ?” 

“ You  heard  what  she  herself  said  on  that  very  point.” 

There  was  a silence  for  a minute  or  two.  Scoutbush  had 
heard,  and  was  pondering  it  in  his  heart.  At  last, — 

“ I am  not  cut  out  for  a hero  ; so  I suppose  I must  give  her 
up.  But  I wish  sometimes  I could  be  of  use,  Mrs.  Mellot : but 
what  can  a fellow  do  V* 

“ I thought  there  was  an  Irish  tenantry  to  be  looked  after,  my 
lord,  and  a Cornish  tenantry  too.” 

“ That’s  what  Campbell  is  always  saying  : but  what  more  can 
I do  than  I do  ? As  for  those  poor  Paddies,  I never  ask  them 
for  rent ; if  I did,  I should  not  get  it ; so  there  is  no  generosity 
in  that.  And  as  for  the  Aberalva  people,  they  have  got  on  very 
well  without  me  for  twenty  years  ; and  I don’t  know  them,  nor 
what  they  want ; nor  even  if  they  do  want  anything,  except  fish 
enough,  and  I can’t  put  more  fish  into  the  sea,  Mrs.  Mellot  VJ 
“ Try  and  be  a good  soldier,  then,”  said  she,  laughing.  “Why 
should  not  Lord  Scoutbush  emulate  his  illustrious  countryman, 
conquer  at  a second  Waterloo,  and  die  a duke'?” 

“ I’m  not  cut  out  for  a general,  I am  afraid  ; but  if — I don’t 
say  if  I could  marry  that  woman — I suppose  it  would  be  a foolish 
thing — though  I shall  break  my  heart,  I believe,  if  I do  not. 
Oh,  Mrs.  Mellot,  you  cannot  tell  what  a fool  I have  made  myself 
about  her ; and  I cannot  help  it ! It’s  not  her  beauty  merely ; 
but  there  is  something  so  noble  in  her  face,  like  one  of  those 
Greek  goddesses  Claude  talks  of ; and  when  she  is  acting,  if  she 
has  to  say  anything  grand,  or  generous — or — you  know  the  sort 
of  thing, — she  brings  it  out  with  such  a voice,  and  such  a look, 
from  the  very  bottom  of  her  heart, — it  makes  me  shudder ; just 
as  she  did  when  she  told  that  Yankee,  that  every  one  could  be  a 
hero,  or  a martyr,  if  he  chose.  Mrs.  Mellot,  I am  sure  she  is 
one,  or  she  could  not  look  and  speak  as  she  does.” 

“ She  is  one  !”  said  Sabina  ; “ a heroine,  and  a martyr  too.” 

“ If  I could, — that  was  what  I was  going  to  say, — if  I could 
but  win  that  woman’s  respect — as  I live,  I ask  no  more ; only 
to  be  sure  she  didn’t  despise  me.  I’d  do — I don’t  know  what  I 
wouldn’t  do.  I’d — I’d  study  the  art  of  war  : I know  there  are 
books  about  it.  I’d  get  out  to  the  East,  away  from  this  depot 
work ; and  if  there  is  no  fighting  there,  as  every  one  says  there 
will  not  be,  I’d  go  into  a marching  regiment,  and  see  service. 
I’d, — hang  it,  if  they’d  have  me, — I’d  even  go  to  the  senior 
department  at  Sandhurst,  and  read  mathematics  !” 


118 


TAKING  ROOT. 


Sabina  kept  her  countenance  (though  with  difficulty)  at  this 
magnificent  bathos ; for  she  saw  that  the  little  man  was  really 
in  earnest ; and  that  the  looks  and  words  of  the  strange  actress 
had  awakened  in  him  something  far  deeper  and  nobler  than  the 
mere  sensual  passion  of  a boy. 

“ Ah,  if  I had  but  gone  out  to  Yarna  with  the  rest ! I thought 
myself  a lucky  fellow  to  be  left  here.” 

“ Do  you  know  that  it  is  getting  very  late  V9 

So  Frederick  Lord  Scoutbush  went  home  to  his  rooms ; and 
there  sat  for  three  hours  and  more  with  his  feet  on  the  fender, 
rejecting  the  entreaties  of  Mr.  Bowie,  his  servant,  either  to  have 
something,  or  to  go  to  bed ; yea,  he  forgot  even  to  smoke,  by 
which  Mr.  Bowie  “ jaloused”  that  he  was  hit  very  hard  indeed: 
but  made  no  remark,  being  a Scotchman,  and  of  a cautious  tem- 
perament. 

However,  from  that  night  Scoutbush  was  a changed  man,  and 
tried  to  be  so.  He  read  of  nothing  but  sieges  and  stockades, 
brigade  evolutions,  and  conical  bullets ; he  drilled  his  men  till 
he  was  an  abomination  in  their  eyes,  and  a weariness  to  their 
flesh ; only  every  evening  he  went  to  the  theatre,  watched  La 
Cordiflamma  with  a heavy  heart,  and  then  went  home  to  bed  ; 
for  the  little  man  had  good  sense  enough  to  ask  Sabina  for  no 
more  interviews  with  her.  So  in  all  things  he  acquitted  himself 
as  a model  officer,  and  excited  the  admiration  and  respect  of 
Serjeant-Major  Mac  Arthur,  who  began  fishing  at  Bowie  to  dis- 
cover the  cause  of  this  strange  metamorphosis  in  the  rackety 
little  Irishman. 

“ Your  master  seems  to  be  qualifying  himself  for  the  adjutant’s 
post,  Mr.  Bowie.  I’m  jalousing  he’s  fired  with  martial  ardour 
since  the  war  broke  out.” 

To  which  Bowie,  being  a brother  Scot,  answered  Scottice,  by 
a crafty  paralogism. 

“ I’ve  always  held  it  as  my  opeeeenion,  that  his  lordship  is  a 
youth  of  very  good  parts,  if  he  was  only  compelled  to  employ 
them.” 


CHAPTEE  VIII 

TAKING  ROOT. 

Whosoever  enjoys  the  sight  of  an  honest  man  doing  his  work 
well,  would  have  enjoyed  the  sight  of  Tom  Thurnall  for  the  next 
two  months.  In-doors  all  the  morning,  and  out  of  doors  all  the 
afternoon,  was  that  shrewd  and  good-natured  visage,  calling  up 
an  answering  smile  on  every  face,  and  leaving  every  heart  a little 


TAKING  ROOT. 


1 19 


lighter  than  he  found  it.  Puzzling  enough  it  was,  alike  to  Heale 
and  to  Headley,  how  Tom  contrived,  as  if  by  magic,  to  gain  every 
one’s  good  word — their  own  included.  Por  Frank,  in  spite  of 
Tom’s  questionable  opinions,  had  already  made  all  but  a confidant 
of  the  Doctor ; and  Heale,  in  spite  of  envy  and  suspicion,  could 
not  deny  that  the  young  man  was  a very  valuable  young  man, 
if  he  wasn’t  given  so  much  to  those  new-fangled  notions  of  the 
profession. 

By  which  term  Heale  indicated  the,  to  him,  astounding  fact, 
that  Tom  charged  the  patients  as  little,  instead  of  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, and  applying  to  medicine  the  principles  of  an  enlightened 
political  economy,  tried  to  increase  the  demand  by  cheapening  the 
supply. 

44  Which  is  revolutionary  doctrine,  Sir,”  said  Heale  to  Lieu- 
tenant Jones,  over  the  brandy-and-water,  44  and  just  like  what 
the  Cobden  and  Bright  lot  used  to  talk,  and  have  been  the  ruin 
of  British  agriculture,  though  don’t  say  I said  so,  because  of  my 
Lord  Minchampstead.  But,  conceive  my  feelings,  Sir,  as  the 
father  of  a family,  who  have  my  bread  to  earn,  this  very  morning. 
— In  comes  old  Dame  Penaluna  (which  is  good  pay  I know,  and 
has  two  hundred  and  more  out  on  a merchant  brig)  for  some- 
thing ; and  what  was  my  feelings,  Sir,  to  hear  this  young  party 
deliver  himself — -4  Well,  ma’am,’  says  he,  as  I am  a living  man, 

4 1 can  cure  you,  if  you  like,  with  a dozen  bottles  of  lotion,  at 
eighteenpence  a-piece ; but  if  you’ll  take  my  advice,  you’ll  buy 
two  pennyworth  of  alum  down  street,  do  what  I tell  you  with 
it,  and  cure  yourse]f.’  It’s  robbery,  Sir,  I say,  all  these  out-of- 
the-way  cheap  dodges,  which  arn’t  in  the  pharmacopoeia,  half  of 
them;  it’s  unprofessional,  Sir — quackery.” 

44  Tell  you  what,  Doctor,  robbery  or  none,  I’ll  go  to  him  to- 
morrow, d’ye  see,  if  I live  as  long,  for  this  old  ailment  of  mine. 
I never  told  you  of  it,  old  pill  and  potion,  for  fear  of  a swinging 
bill:  but  just  grinned  and  bore  it,  d’ye  see.” 

44  There  it  is  again,”  cries  Heale  in  despair.  44  He’ll  ruin  me.” 

44  Ho,  he  won’t,  and  you  know  it.” 

44  What  d’ye  think  he  served  me  last  week1?  A young  chap 
comes  in,  consumptive,  he  said,  and  I dare  say  he’s  right — he  is 
uncommonly  ’cute  about  what  he  calls  diagnosis.  Says  he,  4 You 
ought  to  try  Carrageen  moss.  It’s  an  old  drug,  but  it’s  a good 
one.’  There  was  a drawer  full  of  it  to  his  hand ; had  been  lying 
there  any  time  this  ten  years.  I go  to  open  it : but  what  was 
my  feelings  when  he  goes  on,  as  cool  as  a cucumber — 4 And 
there’s  bushels  of  it  here,’  says  he,  4 on  every  rock ; so  if  you’ll 
come  down  with  me  at  low  tide  this  afternoon,  I’ll  show  you  the 
trade,  and  tell  you  how  to  boil  it.’  I thought  I should  have 
knocked  him  down.” 


V20 


TAKING  ROOT. 


“ But  you  didn’t,”  said  Jones,  laughing  in  every  muscle  of  Ilia 
body.  “ Tell  you  what,  Doctor,  you’ve  got  a treasure  ; he’s  just 
getting  back  your  custom,  d’ye  see,  and  when  he’s  done  that, 
he’ll  lay  on  the  bills  sharp  enough.  Why,  I hear  he’s  up  at 
Mrs.  Vavasour’s  every  day.” 

“And  not  ten  shillings’  worth  of  medicine  sent  up  to  the  house 
any  week.” 

“ He  charges  for  his  visits,  I suppose.” 

“ Not  he ! If  you’ll  believe  me,  when  I asked  him  if  he 
wasn’t  going  to,  he  says,  says  he,  that  Mrs.  Vavasour’s  company 
was  quite  payment  enough  for  him.” 

“ Shows  his  good  taste.  Why,  what  now,  Mary  V1  as  the 
maid  opens  the  door. 

“ Mr.  Thurnall  wants  Mr.  Heale.” 

“Always  wanting  me,”  groans  Heale,  hugging  his  glass, 
“ driving  me  about  like  any  negro  slave.  Tell  him  to  come  in.” 
“ Here,  Doctor,”  says  the  Lieutenant,  “ I want  you  to  pre- 
scribe for  me,  if  you’ll  do  it  gratis,  d’ye  see.  Take  some  brandy 
and  water.” 

“ Good  advice  costs  nothing,”  says  Tom,  filling  ; “ Mr.  Heale, 
read  that  letter.” 

And  the  Lieutenant  details  his  ailments,  and  their  supposed 
cause,  till  Heale  has  the  pleasure  of  hearing  Tom  answer — 

“ Fiddlesticks  ! That’s  not  what’s  the  matter  with  you.  I’ll 
cure  you  for  half-a-crown,  and  toss  you  up  double  or  quits.” 

“ Oh  !”  groans  Heale,  as  he  spells  away  over  the  letter, — 

“ Lord  Minchampstead  having  been  informed  by  Mr.  Arms- 
wortli  that  Mr.  Thurnall  is  now  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his 
estates  of  Pentremochyn,  would  feel  obliged  to  him  at  his  earliest 
convenience  to  examine  into  the  sanitary  state  of  the  cottages 
thereon,  which  are  said  to  be  much  haunted  by  typhus  and  other 
epidemics,  and  to  send  him  a detailed  report,  indicating  what  he 
thinks  necessary  for  making  them  thoroughly  healthy.  Mr. 
Thurnall  will  be  so  good  as  to  make  his  own  charge.” 

“ Well,  Mr.  Thurnall,  you  ought  to  turn  a good  penny  by 
this,”  said  Heale,  half  envious  of  Tom’s  connexion,  half  con- 
temptuous at  his  supposed  indifference  to  gain. 

“ I’ll  charge  what  it’s  worth,”  said  Tom.  “ Meanwhile,  I hope 
you’re  going  to  see  Miss  Beer  to-night.” 

“Couldn’t  you  just  go  yourself,  my  dear  Sir?  It  is  so 
late.” 

“ Ho  ; I never  go  near  young  women.  I told  you  so  at  first, 
and  I stick  to  my  rule.  You’d  better  go,  Sir,  on  my  word,  or  if 
she’s  dead  before  morning,  don’t  say  it’s  my  fault.” 

“ Did  you  ever  hear  a poor  old  man  so  tyrannized  over?”  said 
Heale,  as  Tom  coolly  went  into  the  passage,  brought  in  the  old 


TAKING  ROOT.  121 

mans  great  coat  and  hat,  arrayed  him  and  marched  him  out, 
civilly,  hut  firmly. 

“ Now,  Lieutenant,  I’ve  half  an  hour  to  spare ; let’s  have  a 
jolly  chat  about  the  West  Indies.” 

And  Tom  began  with  anecdote  and  joke,  and  the  old  seaman 
laughed  till  he  cried,  and  went  to  bed  vowing  that  there  never 
was  such  a pleasant  fellow  on  earth,  and  he  ought  to  be  physician 
to  Queen  Victoria. 

Up  at  five  the  next  morning,  the  indefatigable  Tom  had  all 
his  work  done  by  ten ; and  was  preparing  to  start  for  Pentre- 
mochyn,  ere  Heale  was  out  of  bed,  when  a customer  came  in  who 
kept  him  half  an  hour. 

He  was  a tall  broad-shouldered  young  man,  with  a red  face, 
protruding  bull’s  eyes,  and  a moustachio.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
complete  suit  of  pink  and  white  plaid,  cut  jauntily  enough.  A 
bright  blue  cap,  a thick  gold  watch-chain,  three  or  four  large 
lings,  a dog-whistle  from  his  button-hole,  a fancy  cane  in  his 
nand,  and  a little  Oxford  meerschaum  in  his  mouth,  completed 
his  equipment.  He  lounged  in,  with  an  air  of  careless  supe- 
riority, while  Tom,  who  was  behind  the  counter,  cutting  up  his 
day’s  provision  of  honey-dew,  eyed  him  curiously. 

“ Who  are  you,  now  ] A gentleman  ] Not  quite,  I guess. 
Some  squireen  of  the  parts  adjacent,  and  look  in  somewhat  of  a 
crapulocomatose  state  moreover.  I wonder  if  you  are  the  great 
Trebooze  of  Trebooze.” 

“ I say,”  yawned  the  young  gentleman,  M where’s  old  Heale  ] ” 
and  an  oath  followed  the  speech,  as  it  did  every  other  one  herein 
recorded. 

“ The  playing  half  of  old  Heale  is  in  bod,  and  Pm  his  working 
half.  Can  I do  anything  for  you  ] ” 

“ Cool  fish,”  thought  the  customer.  “ I say — what  have  you 
got  there  ] ” 

“ Australian  honey-dew.  Did  you  ever  smoke  it  ] ” 

“ I’ve  heard  of  it ; let’s  see  : ” and  Mr.  Trebooze — for  it  was 
he — put  his  hand  across  the  counter  unceremoniously,  and  clawed 
up  some. 

“Didn’t  know  you  sold  tobacco  here.  Prime  stuff.  Too 
strong  for  me,  though,  this  morning,  somehow.” 

“ Ah  ] A little  too  much  claret  last  night  ] I thought  so. 
We’ll  set  that  right  in  five  minutes.” 

“Eh]  How  did  you  guess  that]”  asked  Trebooze,  with  a 
larger  oath  than  usual. 

“ Oh,  we  doctors  are  men  of  the  world,”  said  Tom,  in  a cheer- 
ful and  insinuating  tone,  as  he  mixed  his  man  a draught. 

“ You  doctors  ] You’re  a cock  of  a different  hackle  from  old 
Heale,  then  ” 


122 


TAKING  ROOT. 


“ I trust  so,”  said  Tom. 

“ By  George,  I feel  better  already.  I say,  you're  a trump ; 3 
suppose  you're  Heale's  new  partner,  the  man  who  was  washed 
ashore  ? ” 

Tom  nodded  assent. 

“ I say — How  do  you  sell  that  honey-dew  ? ” 

“ I don't  sell  it ; I’ll  give  you  as  much  as  you  like,  only  you 
shan’t  smoke  it  till  after  dinner.” 

“ Shan't  ?”  said  Trebooze,  testy  and  proud. 

“Not  with  my  leave,  or  you’ll  be  complaining  two  hours 
nence  that  I'm  a humbug,  and  have  done  you  no  good.  Get  on 
your  horse,  and  have  four  hours’  gallop  on  the  downs,  and  you’ll 
feel  like  a buffalo  bull  by  two  o'clock.” 

Trebooze  looked  at  him  with  a stupid  curiosity  and  a little 
awe.  He  saw  that  Tom’s  cool  self-possession  was  not  meant  for 
impudence ; and  something  in  his  tone  and  manner  told  him 
that  the  boast  of  being  “ a man  of  the  world  ” was  not  untrue. 
And  of  all  kinds  of  men,  a man  of  the  world  was  the  man  of 
whom  Trebooze  stood  most  in  awe.  A small  squireen,  cursed 
with  six  or  seven  hundreds  a year  of  his  own,  never  sent  to 
school,  college,  or  into  the  army,  he  had  grown  up  in  a narrow 
circle  of  squireens  like  himself,  without  an  object  save  that  of 
gratifying  his  animal  passions  ; and  had  about  six  years  before, 
being  then  just  of  age,  settled  in  life  by  marrying  his  housemaid 
— the  only  wise  thing,  perhaps,  he  ever  did.  Bor  she,  a clever 
and  determined  woman,  kept  him,  though  not  from  drunkenness 
and  debt,  at  least  from  delirium  tremens  and  ruin,  and  was,  in 
her  rough,  vulgar  way,  his  guardian  angel — such  a one  at  least, 
as  he  was  worthy  of.  More  than  once  has  one  seen  the  same 
seeming  folly  turn  out  in  practice  as  wise  a step  as  could  well 
have  been  taken ; and  the  coarse  nature  of  the  man,  which 
would  have  crushed  and  ill-used  a delicate  and  high-minded 
wife,  subdued  to  something  like  decency  by  a help  literally  meet 
for  it. 

There  was  a pause.  Trebooze  fancied,  and  wisely,  that  the 
Doctor  was  a cleverer  man  than  he,  and  of  course  would  want 
to  show  it.  So,  after  the  fashion  of  a country  squireen,  he  felt 
a longing  to  “ set  him  down.”  “ He’s  been  a traveller,  they  say,” 
thought  he  in  that  pugnacious,  sceptical  spirit  which  is  bred,  not, 
as  twaddlers  fancy,  by  too  extended  knowledge,  but  by  the  sense 
of  ignorance,  and  a narrow  sphere  of  thought,  which  makes 
a man  angry  and  envious  of  any  one  who  has  seen  more 
than  he. 

“ Buffalo  bulls  h ” said  he,  half  contemptuously ; “ what  do 
you  know  about  buffalo  bulls  ? ” 

“ I was  one  once  myself/’  said  Tom,  “ where  I lived  before.” 


TAKING  ROOT.,  123 

Trebooze  swore.  “ Don’t  you  put  your  traveller’s  lies  on 
me,  Sir.” 

“ Well,  perhaps  I dreamt  it,”  said  Tom,  placidly ; “ I remem- 
ber I dreamt  at  the  same  time  that  you  were  a grizzly  bear, 
fourteen  feet  long,  and  wanted  to  eat  me  up  : but  you  found  me 
too  tough  about  the  hump  ribs.” 

Trebooze  stared  at  his  audacity. 

“ You’re  a rum  hand.” 

To  which  Tom  made  answer  in  the  same  elegant  strain ; and 
then  began  a regular  word-battle  of  slang,  in  which  Tom  showed 
himself  so  really  witty  a proficient,  that  Mr.  Trebooze  laughed 
himself  into  good- humour,  and  ended  by — 

“ I say,  you’re  a good  fellow,  and  I think  you  and  I shall 
suit.” 

Tom  had  his  doubts,  but  did  not  express  them. 

“ Come  up  this  afternoon  and  see  my  child ; Mrs.  Trebooze 
thinks  it’s  got  swelled  glands,  or  some  such  woman’s  nonsense. 
Bother  them,  why  can’t  they  let  the  child  alone,  fussing  and 
doctoring : and  she  will  have  you.  Heard  of  you  from  Mrs. 
Vavasour,  I believe.  Our  doctor  and  I have  quarrelled,  and  she 
said,  if  I could  get  you,  she’d  sooner  have  you  than  that  old 
rum-puncheon  Heale.  And  then,  you’d  better  stop  and  take 
pot-luck,  and  we’ll  make  a night  of  it.” 

“ I have  to  go  round  Lord  Minchampstead’s  estates,  and  will 
take  you  on  my  way  : but  I’m  afraid  I shall  be  too  dirty  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  dining  with  Mrs.  Trebooze  coining  back.” 

“ Mrs.  Trebooze ! She  must  take  what  I like ; and  what’s 
good  enough  for  me  is  good  enough  for  her,  I hope.  Come  as 
you  are — Liberty-hall  at  Trebooze ; ” and  out  he  swaggered. 

“ Does  he  bully  her  h ” thought  Tom,  “ or  is  he  hen-pecked, 
and  wants  to  hide  it  h I’ll  see  to-night,  and  play  my  cards 
accordingly.” 

All  which  Miss  Heale  had  heard.  She  had  been  peeping  and 
listening  at  the  glass-door,  and  her  mother  also  ; for  no  sooner 
had  Trebooze  entered  the  shop,  than  she  had  run  off  to  tell  her 
mother  the  surprising  fact,  Trebooze’s  custom  having  been,  for 
some  years  past,  courted  in  vain  by  Heale.  So  Miss  Heale  peeped 
and  peeped  at  a man  whom  she  regarded  with  delighted  curiosity, 
because  he  bore  the  reputation  of  being  “ such  a naughty  wicked 
man ! ” and  “ so  very  handsome  too,  and  so  distinguished  as  he 
looks  ! ” said  the  poor  little  fool,  to  whose  novel-fed  imagination 
Mr.  Trebooze  was  an  ideal  Lothario. 

But  the  surprise  of  the  two  dames  grew  rapidly  as  they  heard 
Tom’s  audacity  towards  the  country  aristocrat. 

“ Impudent  wretch  i”  moaned  Mrs.  Heale  to  herself.  “He’d 
drive  away  an  angel  if  he  came  into  the  shop.” 


124 


TAKING  ROOT. 


“ Oh,  Ma  ! hear  how  they  are  going  on  now.’* 

“ I can’t  hear  it,  my  dear.  This  man  will  he  the  ruin  of  us. 
His  manners  are  those  of  the  pot-house,  when  the  cloven  foot  is 
shown,  which  it’s  his  nature  as  a child  of  wrath,  and  we  can’t 
expect  otherwise.” 

“ Oh,  Ma ! do  you  drear  that  Mr.  Trehooze  has  asked  him  to 
dinner  h ” 

“Nonsense  ! ” 

But  it  was  true. 

“ Well ! if  there  ain’t  the  signs  of  the  end  of  the  world,  which 
is  ? All  the  years  your  poor  father  has  heen  here,  and  never  so 
much  as  send  him  a hare,  and  now  this  young  penniless  inter- 
loper ; and  he  to  dine  at  Trehooze  off  purple  and  fine  linen.” 

“ There  is  not  much  of  that  there,  Ma ; I’m  sure  they  are 
poor  enough,  for  all  his  pride ; and  as  for  her — ” 

“ Yes,  my  dear ; and  as  for  her,  though  we  haven’t  married 
squires,  my  dear,  yet  we  haven’t  been  squire’s  housemaids,  and 
have  adorned  our  own  station,  which  was  good  enough  for  us, 
and  has  no  need  to  rise  out  of  it,  nor  ride  on  Pharaoh’s  chariot- 
wheels  after  filthy  lucre — ” 

Miss  Heale  hated  poor  Mrs.  Trehooze  with  a bitter  hatred, 
because  she  dreamed  insanely  that,  but  for  her,  she  might  have 
secured  Mr.  Trehooze  for  herself.  And  though  her  ambition  was 
now  transferred  to  the  unconscious  Tom,  that  need  not  make  any 
difference  in  the  said  amiable  feeling. 

But  that  Tom  was  a most  wonderful  person,  she  had  no  doubt. 
He  had  conquered  her  heart — so  she  informed  herself  passionately 
again  and  again ; as  was  very  necessary,  seeing  that  the  passion, 
having  no  real  life  of  its  own,  required  a good  deal  of  blowing  to 
keep  it  alight.  Yes,  he  had  conquered  her  heart,  and  he  was 
conquering  all  hearts  likewise.  There  must  be  some  mystery 
about  him — there  should  be.  And  she  settled  in  her  novel- 
bewildered  brain,  that  Tom  must  be  a nobleman  in  disguise — 
probably  a foreign  prince,  exiled  for  political  offences.  Bah  ! 
perhaps  too  many  lines  have  been  spent  on  the  poor  little  fool ; 
but  as  such  fools  exist,  and  people  must  be  as  they  are,  there  is 
no  harm  in  drawing  her;  and  in  asking,  too — Who  will  help 
those  young  girls  of  the  middle  class  who,  like  Miss  Heale,  are 
often  really  less  educated  than  the  children  of  their  parents’ 
workmen;  sedentary,  luxurious,  full  of  petty  vanity,  gossip,  and 
intrigue,  without  work,  without  purpose,  except  that  of  getting 
married  to  any  one  who  will  ask  them — bewildering  brain  and 
heart  with  novels,  which,  after  all,  one  hardly  grudges  them ; for 
what  other  means  have  they  of  learning  that  there  is  any  fairer, 
nobler  life  possible,  at  least  on  earth,  than  that  of  the  sordid  money- 
getting,  often  the  sordid  puffery  and  adulteration,  which  is  the 


TAKING  ROOT. 


125 


atmosphere  of  their  home  ? Exceptions  there  are,  in  thousands, 
doubtless;  and  the  families  of  the  great  city  tradesmen  stand, 
of  course,  on  far  higher  ground,  and  are  often  far  better  educated, 
and  more  high-minded,  than  the  fine  ladies,  their  parents’  cus- 
tomers. But,  till  some  better  plan  of  education  than  the 
boarding-school  is  devised  for  them ; till  our  towns  shall  see 
something  like  in  kind  to,  though  sounder  and  soberer  in  quality 
than,  the  high  schools  of  America ; till  in  country  villages  the 
ladies  who  interest  themselves  about  the  poor  will  recollect  that 
the  farmers’  and  tradesmen’s  daughters  are  just  as  much  in  want 
of  their  influence  as  the  charity  children,  and  will  yield  a far 
richer  return  for  their  labour,  though  the  one  need  not  interfere 
with  the  other ; so  long  will  England  be  full  of  Miss  Heales ; 
fated,  when  they  marry,  to  bring  up  sons  and  daughters  as  sordid 
and  unwholesome  as  their  mothers. 

Tom  worked  all  that  day  in  and  out  of  the  Pentremochyn 
cottages,  noting  down  nuisances  and  dilapidations  : but  his  head 
was  full  of  other  thoughts ; for  he  had  received,  the  evening 
before,  news  which  was  to  him  very  important,  for  more  reasons 
than  one.  The  longer  he  stayed  at  Aberalva,  the  longer  he  felt 
inclined  to  stay.  The  strange  attraction  of  Grace  had,  as  we 
have  seen,  something  to  do  with  his  purpose : but  he  saw,  too, 
a good  opening  for  one  of  those  country  practices,  in  which  he 
seemed  more  and  more  likely  to  end.  At  his  native  Whitbury, 
he  knew,  there  was  no  room  for  a fresh  medical  man;  and 
gradually  he  was  making  up  his  mind  to  settle  at  Aberalva ; to 
buy  out  Heale,  either  with  his  own  money  (if  he  recovered  it), 
or  with  money  borrowed  from  Mark  ; to  bring  his  father  down 
to  live  with  him,  and  in  that  pleasant  wild  western  place,  fold 
his  wings  after  all  his  wanderings.  And  therefore  certain  news 
which  he  had  obtained  the  night  before  was  very  valuable  to 
him,  in  that  it  put  a fresh  person  into  his  power,  and  might,  if 
cunningly  used,  give  him  a hold  upon  the  ruling  family  of  the 
place,  and  on  Lord  Scoutbush  himself.  He  had  found  out  that 
Lucia  and  Elsley  were  unhappy  together ; and  found  out,  too, 
a little  more  than  was  there  to  find.  He  could  not,  of  course, 
be  a month  among  the  gossips  of  Aberalva,  without  hearing 
hints  that  the  great  folks  at  the  court  did  not  always  keep  their 
tempers ; for,  of  family  jars,  as  of  everything  else  on  earth,  the 
great  and  just  law  stands  true  : — “ What  you  do  in  the  closet, 
shall  be  proclaimed  on  the  housetop.” 

But  the  gossips  of  Aberalva,  as  women  are  too  often  wont  to 
do,  had  altogether  taken  the  man’s  side  in  the  quarrel.  The 
reason  was,  I suppose,  that  Lucia,  conscious  of  having  fallen 
somewhat  in  rank,  “held  up  her  head”  to  Mrs.  Trebooze  and 
Mrs.  Heale  (as  they  themselves  expressed  it),  and  to  various 


126 


TAKING  ROOT. 


other  little  notabilities  of  the  neighbourhood,  rather  more  than 
she  would  have  done  had  she  married  a man  of  her  own  class, 
She  was  afraid  that  they  might  boast  of  being  intimate  with 
her ; that  they  might  take  to  advising  and  patronising  her  as  an 
inexperienced  young  creature  ; afraid,  even,  that  she  might  be 
tempted,  in  some  unguarded  moment,  to  gossip  with  them, 
conhde  her  unhappiness  to  them,  in  the  blind  longing  to  open 
her  heart  to  some  human  being;  for  there  were  no  residen 
gentry  of  her  own  rank  in  the  neighbourhood.  She  was  too 
high-minded  to  complain  much  to  Clara;  and  her  sister  Valencia 
was  the  very  last  person  to  whom  she  would  confess  that  her 
run-away-match  had  not  been  altogether  successful.  So  she 
lived  alone  and  friendless,  shrinking  into  herself  more  and 
more,  while  the  vulgar  women  round  mistook  her  honour  for 
pride,  and  revenged  themselves  accordingly.  She  was  an  unin- 
teresting fine  lady,  proud  and  cross,  and  Elsley  was  a martyr. 
“ So  handsome  and  agreeable  as  he  was — (and  to  do  him  justice, 
he  was  the  former,  and  he  could  be  the  latter  when  he  chose) — 
to  be  tied  to  that  unsociable,  stuck-up  woman ; ” and  so  forth. 

All  which  Tom  had  heard,  and  formed  his  own  opinion 
thereof ; which  was, — 

“ Adi  very  fine : but  I flatter  myself  I know  a little  what 
women  are  made  of ; and  this  I know,  that  where  man  and 
wife  quarrel,  even  if  she  ends  the  battle,  it  is  he  who  has  begun 
it.  I never  saw  a case  yet  where  the  man  was  not  the  most  in 
fault;  and  I?ll  lay  my  life  John  Eriggs  has  led  her  a pretty  life: 
what  else  could  one  expect  of  him  ” 

However,  he  held  his  tongue,  and  kept  his  eyes  open  withal 
whenever  he  went  up  to  Penalva  Court,  which  he  had  to  do 
very  often ; for  though  he  had  cured  the  children  of  their  ail- 
ments, yet  Mrs.  Yavasour  was  perpetually,  more  or  less,  unwell, 
and  he  could  not  cure  her.  Her  low  spirits,  head-aches,  general 
want  of  tone  and  vitality,  puzzled  him  at  first ; and  would  have 
puzzled  him  longer,  had  he  not  settled  with  himself  that  their 
cause  was  to  be  sought  in  the  mind,  and  not  in  the  body ; and 
at  last,  gaining  courage  from  certainty,  he  had  hinted  as  much 
to  Miss  Clara  the  night  before,  when  she  came  down  (as  she 
was  very  fond  of  doing)  to  have  a gossip  with  him  in  his  shop, 
under  the  pretence  of  fetching  medicine. 

“ I don’t  think  I shall  send  Mrs.  Yavasour  any  more,  Miss 
Clara.  There  is  no  use  running  up  a long  bill  while  I do  no 
good ; and,  what  is  more,  suspect  that  I can  do  none,  poor 
lady.”  And  he  gave  the  girl  a look  which  seemed  to  say,  “You 
had  better  tell  me  the  truth  ; for  I know  everything  already.” 

To  which  Clara  answered  by  trying  to  find  out  how  much  he 
did  know  : but  Tom  was  a cunninger  diplomatist  than  she ; and 


TAKING  ROOT. 


127 


in  ten  minutes,  after  having  given  solemn  promises  of  secresy, 
and  having,  by  strong  expressions  of  contempt  for  Mrs.  Heale 
and  the  village  gossips,  made  Clara  understand  that  he  did  not 
at  all  take  their  view  of  the  case,  he  had  poured  out  to  him 
across  the  counter  all  Clara’s  long-pent  indignation  and  contempt. 

“I  never  said  a word  of  this  to  a living  soul,  Sir;  I was  too 
proud,  for  my  mistress’s  sake,  to  let  vulgar  people  know  what  we 
suffered.  We  don’t  want  any  of  their  pity  indeed ; but  you,  Sir*, 
who  have  the  feelings  of  a gentleman,  and  know  what  the  world 
is,  like  ourselves — ” 

44  Take  care,”  whispered  Tom;  “that  daughter  of  Heale’s  may 
be  listening.” 

44  I’d  pull  her  hair  about  her  ears  if  I caught  her ! ” quoth 
Clara ; and  then  ran  on  to  tell  how  Elsley  “ never  kept  no  hours, 
nor  no  accounts  either ; so  that  she  has  to  do  everything,  poor 
thing;  and  no  thanks  either.  And  never  knows  when  he’ll 
dine,  or  when  he’ll  breakfast,  or  when  he’ll  be  in,  wandering  in 
and  out  like  a madman ; and  sits  up  all  night,  writing  his  non- 
sense. And  she’ll  go  down  twice  and  three  times  a night  in  the 
cold,  poor  dear,  to  see  if  he’s  fallen  asleep ; and  gets  abused  like 
a pickpocket  for  her  pains  (which  was  an  exaggeration) ; and  lies 
in  bed  all  the  morning,  looking  at  the  flies,  and  calls  after  her  if 
his  shoes  want  tying,  or  his  finger  aches ; as  helpless  as  the  babe 
unborn ; and  will  never  do  nothing  useful  himself,  not  even  to 
hang  a picture  or  move  a chair,  and  grumbles  at  her  if  he  sees 
her  doing  anything,  because  she  ain’t  listening  to  his  prosodies, 
and  snaps,  and  worrits,  and  won’t  speak  to  her  sometimes  for  a 
whole  morning,  the  brute.” 

44  But  is  he  not  fond  of'  his  children  ? ” 

“ Bond  h Yes,  his  way,  and  small  thanks  to  him,  the  little 
angels  ! To  play  with  ’em  when  they’re  good,  and  tell  them 
cock-and-a-bull  fairy-tales — wonder  why  he  likes  to  put  such 
stuff  into  their  heads — and  then  send  ’em  out  of  the  room  if  they 
make  a noise,  because  it  splits  his  poor  head,  and  his  nerves  are 
so  delicate.  Wish  he  had  hers,  or  mine  either,  Doctor  Thurnall; 
then  he’d  know  what  nerves  was,  in  a frail  woman,  which  he 
uses  us  both  as  his  negro  slaves,  or  would  if  I didn’t  stand  up  to 
him  pretty  sharp  now  and  then,  and  give  him  a piece  of  my 
mind,  which  I will  do,  like  the  faithful  servant  in  the  parable, 
if  he  kills  me  for  it,  Doctor  Thurnall ! ” 

4 4 Does  he  drink  1 ” asked  Tom,  bluntly. 

44  He  ! ” she  answered,  in  a tone-  which  seemed  to  imply  that 
even  one  masculine  vice  would  have  raised  him  in  her  eyes. 
u He’s  not  man  enough,  I think ; and  lives  on  his  slops,  and  his 
coffee,  and  his  tapioca ; and  how’s  he  ever  to  have  any  appetite, 
always  a sitting  about,  heaped  up  together  over  his  books,  with 


128 


TAKING  ROOT. 


his  ribs  growing  into  his  backbone  ? — If  he’d  only  go  and  take 
his  walk,  or  get  a spade  and  dig  in  the  garden,  or  anything  but 
them  everlasting  papers,  which  I hates  the  sight  of;”  and  so 
forth. 

From  all  which  Tom  gathered  a tolerably  clear  notion  of  the 
poor  poet’s  state  of  body  and  mind ; as  a self-indulgent,  un- 
methodical person,  whose  ill-temper  was  owing  partly  to  perpetual 
brooding  over  his  own  thoughts,  and  partly  to  dyspepsia,  brought 
on  by  his  own  effeminacy — in  both  cases,  not  a thing  to  be  pitied 
or  excused  by  the  hearty  and  valiant  Doctor.  And  Tom’s  original 
contempt  for  Yavasour  took  a darker  form,  perhaps  one  too  dark 
to  be  altogether  just. 

“ I’ll  tackle  him,  Miss  Clara.” 

“ I wish  you  would : I’m  sure  he  wants  some  one  to  look  after 
him  just  now.  He’s  half  wild  about  some  review  that  some- 
body’s been  and  done  of  him  in  The  Times,  and  has  been  flinging 
the  paper  about  the  room,  and  calling  all  mankind  vipers  and 
adders,  and  hooting  herds — it’s  as  bad  as  swearing,  I say — and 
running  to  my  Mistress,  to  make  her  read  it,  and  see  how  the 
whole  world’s  against  him,  and  then  forbidding  her  to  defile  her 
eyes  with  a word  of  it ; and  so  on,  till  she’s  been  crying  all  the 
morning,  poor  dear  ! ” 

“ Why  not  laughing  at  him  ? ” 

“ Poor  thing ; that’s  where  it  all  is : she’s  just  as  anxious 
about  his  poetry  as  he  is,  and  would  write  it  just  as  well  as  he, 
I’ll  warrant,  if  she  hadn’t  better  things  to  do  ; and  all  her  fuss 
is,  that  people  should  ‘appreciate’  him.  He’s  always  talking 
about  appreciating,  till  I hate  the  sound  of  the  word.  How  any 
woman  can  go  on  so  after  a man  that  behaves  as  he  does  ! but 
we’re  all  soft  fools,  I’m  afraid,  Doctor  Thurnall.”  And  Clara 
began  a languishing  look  or  two  across  the  counter,  which  made 
Tom  answer  to  an  imaginary  Doctor  Heale,  whom  he  heard 
calling  from  within. 

“ Yes,  Doctor ! coming  this  moment,  Doctor ! Good-bye, 
Miss  Clara.  I must  hear  more  next  time  ; you  may  trust  me, 
you  know  ; secret  as  the  grave,  and  always  your  friend,  and  your 
lady’s  too,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  do  myself  such  an  honour. 
Coming,  Doctor  ! ” 

And  Tom  bolted  through  the  glass  door,  till  Miss  Clara  was 
safe  on  her  way  up  the  street. 

“Very  well,”  said  Tom  to  himself.  “Knowledge  is  power: 
but  how  to  use  it?  To  get  into  Mrs.  Vavasour’s  confidence,  and 
show  an  inclination  to  take  her  part  against  her  husband  ? If 
she  be  a true  woman,  she  would  order  me  out  of  the  house  on 
the  spot,  as  surely  as  a fish- wife  would  fall  tooth  and  nail  on  me 
as  a base  intruder,  if  I dared  to  interfere  with  her  sacred  right  of 


TARING  ROOT. 


129 


"being  beaten  by  her  husband  when  she  chooses.  hTo ; I must  go 
straight  to  John  Briggs  himself,  and  bind  him  over  to  keep  the 
peace;  and  I think  I know  the  way  to  do  it.” 

So  Tom  pondered  over  many  plans  in  his  head  that  day ; and 
then  went  to  Trebooze,  and  saw  the  sick  child,  and  sat  down 
to  dinner,  where  his  host  talked  loud  about  the  Treboozes  of 
Trebooze,  who  fought  in  the  Spanish  Armada — or  against  it ; 
and  showed  an  unbounded  belief  in  the  greatness  and  antiquity 
of  his  family,  combined  with  a historic  accuracy  about  equal  to 
that  of  a good  old  dame  of  those  parts,  who  used  to  say  “ her 
family  corned  over  the  water,  that  she  knew ; but  whether  it 
were  with  the  Conqueror,  or  whether  it  were  wf  Oliver,  she 
couldn’t  exactly  say  ! ” 

Then  he  became  great  on  the  subject  of  old  county  families  in 
general,  and  poured  out  all  the  vials  of  his  wrath  on  “ that  con- 
founded upstart  of  a Newbroom,  Lord  Minchampstead,”  sup- 
planting all  the  fine  old  blood  in  the  country — “ Why,  Sir,  that 

Pentremochyn,  and  Carcarrow  moors  too  ( good  shooting 

there,  there  used  to  be),  they  ought  to  be  mine,  Sir,  if  every  man 
had  his  rights  ! ” And  then  followed  a long  story ; and  a con- 
fused one  withal,  for  by  this  time  Mr.  Trebooze  had  drunk  a 
great  deal  too  much  wine,  and  as  he  became  aware  of  the  fact, 
became  proportionately  anxious  that  Tom  should  drink  too  much 
also ; out  of  which  story  Tom  picked  the  plain  facts,  that  Tre- 
booze’s  father  had  mortgaged  Pentremochyn  estate  for  more  than 
its  value,  and  that  Lord  Minchampstead  had  foreclosed ; while 
some  equally  respectable  uncle,  or  cousin,  just  deceased,  had  sold 
the  reversion  of  Carcarrow  to  the  same  mighty  Cotton  Lord 
twenty  years  before.  “ And  this  is  the  way,  Sir,  the  land  gets 
eaten  up  by  a set  of  tinkers,  and  cobblers,  and  money-lending 
jobbers,  who  suck  the  blood  of  the  aristocracy  ! ” The  oaths  we 
omit,  leaving  the  reader  to  pepper  Mr.  Trebooze’s  conversation 
therewith,  up  to  any  degree  of  heat  which  may  suit  his  palate. 

Tom  sympathised  with  him  deeply,  of  course ; and  did  not  tell 
him,  as  he  might  have  done,  that  he  thought  the  sooner  such 
cumberers  of  the  ground  were  cleared  off,  whether  by  an  en- 
cumbered estates’  act,  such  as  we  may  see  yet  in  England,  or  by 
their  own  suicidal  folly,  the  better  it  would  be  for  the  universe 
in  general,  and  perhaps  for  themselves  in  particular.  But  he 
only  answered  with  pleasant  effrontery — 

“ Ah,  my  dear  Sir,  I am  sure  there  are  hundreds  of  good 
sportsmen  who  can  sympathise  with  you  deeply.  The  wonder 
is,  that  you  do  not  unite  and  defend  yourselves.  For  not  only 
in  the  west  of  England,  but  in  Ireland,  and  in  Wales,  and  in  the 
north,  too,  if  one  is  to  believe  those  novels  of  Currer  Bell’s  and 
her  sister,  there  is  a large  and  important  class  of  landed  pro- 

K 


130 


TAKING  ROOT. 


prietors  of  the  same  stamp  as  yourself,  and  exposed  to  the  very 
same  dangers.  I wonder  at  times  that  you  do  not  all  join,  and 
use  your  combined  influence  on  the  Government.” 

“ The  Government  ? All  a set  of  Whig  traitors  ! Call  them- 
selves Conservative,  or  what  they  like.  Traitors,  Sir ! from  that 
fellow  Peel  upwards — all  combined  to  crush  the  landed  gentry — 
ruin  the  Church — betray  the  country  party — D’lsraeli — Derby 
— Free-trade — ruined,  Sir  ! — Maynooth — Protection — treason— « 
help  yourself,  and  pass  the — you  know,  old  fellow — ” 

And  Mr.  Trebooze’s  voice  died  away,  and  he  slumbered,  but 
not  softly. 

The  door  opened,  and  in  marched  Mrs.  Trebooze,  tall,  tawdry, 
and  terrible. 

“ Mr.  Trebooze  ! it’s  past  eleven  o’clock  ! ” 

“ Hush,  my  dear  Madam ! He  is  sleeping  so  sweetly,”  said 
Tom,  rising,  and  gulping  down  a glass,  not  of  wine,  but  of  strong 
ammonia  and  water.  The  rogue  had  put  a phial  thereof  in  his 
pocket  that  morning,  expecting  that,  as  Trebooze  had  said,  he 
would  be  required  to  make  a night  of  it. 

She  was  silent;  for  to  rouse  her  tyrant  was  more  than  she  dare 
do.  If  awakened,  he  would  crave  for  brandy  and  water ; and  if 
he  got  that  sweet  poison,  he  would  probably  become  furious. 
She  stood  for  half  a minute;  and  Tom,  who  knew  her  story  well, 
watched  her  curiously. 

“ She  is  a fine  woman  : and  with  a far  finer  heart  in  her  than 
that  brute.  Her  eyebrow  and  eye,  now,  have  the  true  Siddons’ 
stamp;  the  great  white  forehead,  and  sharp-cut  little  nostril, 
breathing  scorn — and  what  a Siddons-like  attitude  ! — I should 
like,  madam,  to  see  the  child  again  before  I go.” 

“ If  you  are  fit,  Sir,”  answered  she. 

“ Brave  woman ; comes  to  the  point  at  once.  I am  a poor 
Doctor,  Madam,  and  not  a country  gentleman ; and  have  neither 
money  nor  health  to  spend  in  drinking  too  much  wine.” 

“ Then  why  do  you  encourage  him  in  it,  Sir  ? I had  expected 
a very  different  sort  of  conduct  from  you,  Sir.” 

Tom  did  not  tell  her  what  she  would  not  (no  woman  will) 
understand ; that  it  is  morally  and  socially  impossible  to  escape 
from  the  table  of  a fool,  till  either  he  or  you  are  conquered ; and 
she  was  too  shrewd  to  be  taken  in  by  common-place  excuses ; so 
he  looked  her  very  full  in  the  face,  and  replied  a little  haughtily, 
with  a slow  and  delicate  articulation,  using  his  lips  more  than 
usual,  and  yet  compressing  them  : — • 

I beg  your  pardon,  madam,  if  I have  unintentionally  dis- 
pleased you : but  if  you  ever  do  me  the  honour  of  knowing  more 
of  me,  you  will  be  the  first  to  confess  that  your  words  are  unjust. 
Do  you  wish  me  to  see  your  son,  or  do  you  not  ] ” 


TAKING  HOOT. 


131 


Poor  Mrs.  Trebooze  looked  at  him,  with  an  eye  which  showed 
that  she  had  been  accustomed  to  study  character  keenly,  perhaps 
in  self-defence.  She  saw  that  Tom  was  sober;  he  had  taken 
care  to  prove  that,  by  the  way  in  which  he  spoke  ; and  she  saw, 
too,  that  he  was  a better  bred  man  than  her  husband,  as  well  as 
a cleverer.  She  dropped  her  eye  before  his  ; heaved  something 
very  like  a sigh ; and  then  said,  in  her  curt,  fierce  tone,  which 
yet  implied  a sort  of  sullen  resignation — 

“ Yes ; come  up-stairs.” 

Tom  went  up,  and  looked  at  the  boy  again,  as  he  lay  sleeping. 
A beautiful  child  of  four  years  old,  as  large  and  fair  a child  as 
man  need  see ; and  yet  there  was  on  him  the  curse  of  his  father’s 
sins ; and  Tom  knew  it,  and  knew  that  his  mother  knew  it  also. 

“ What  a noble  boy !”  said  he,  after  looking,  not  without  honest 
admiration,  upon  the  sleeping  child,  who  had  kicked  off  his  bed- 
clothes, and  lay  in  a wild  graceful  attitude,  as  children  are  wont 
to  lie ; just  like  an  old  Greek  statue  of  Cupid.  “ It  all  depends 
upon  you,  Madam,  now.” 

“ On  me  ? ” she  asked,  in  a startled,  suspicious  tone. 

u Yes.  He  is  a magnificent  boy  : but — I can  only  give  pallia- 
tives. It  depends  upon  your  care  now.” 

“ He  will  have  that,  at  least,  I should  hope,”  she  said,  nettled. 

“ And  on  your  influence  ten  years  hence,”  went  on  Tom. 

“ My  influence  h ” 

“ Yes ; only  keep  him  steady,  and  he  may  grow  up  a magnifi- 
cent man.  If  not — you  will  excuse  me — but  you  must  not  let 
him  live  as  freely  as  his  father ; the  constitutions  of  the  two  are 
very  different.” 

“ Don’t  talk  so,  Sir.  Steady1?  His  father  makes  him  drunk 
now,  if  he  can;  teaches  him  to  swear,  because  it  is  manly — God 
help  him  and  me!” 

Tom’s  cunning  and  yet  kind  shaft  had  sped.  He  guessed  that 
with  a coarse  woman  like  Mrs.  Trebooze  his  best  plan  was  to  come 
as  straight  to  the  point  as  he  could ; and  he  was  right.  Ere  half 
an  hour  was  over,  that  woman  had  few  secrets  on  earth  which 
Tom  did  not  know. 

“ Let  me  give  you  one  hint  before  I go,”  said  he,  at  last. 
“ Persuade  your  husband  to  go  into  a militia  regiment.” 

“ Why  ? He  would  see  so  much  company,  and  it  would  be  so 
expensive.” 

“ The  expense  would  repay  itself  ten  times  over.  The  company 
which  he  would  see  would  be  sober  company,  in  which  he  would 
be  forced  to  keep  in  order.  He  would  have  something  to  do  in 
the  world  ; and  he’d  do  it  well.  He  is  just  cut  out  for  a soldier, 
and  might  have  made  a gallant  one  by  now,  if  he  had  had  other 
men’s  chances.  He  will  find  he  does  his  militia  work  well ; and 

k 2 


132 


TAKING  ROOT. 


it  will  be  a new  interest,  and  a new  pride,  and  a new  life  to  him. 
And  meanwhile,  Madam,  what  you  have  said  to  me  is  sacred. 
I do  not  pretend  to  advise  or  interfere.  Only  tell  me  if  1 can 
be  of  use — how,  when,  and  where — and  command  me  as  your 
servant.” 

And  Tom  departed,  having  struck  another  root ; and  was  up  at 
four  the  next  morning  (he  never  worked  at  night ; for,  he  said, 
he  never  could  trust  after-dinner  brains),  drawing  out  a detailed 
report  of  the  Pentremochyn  cottages,  which  he  sent  to  Lord. 
Minchampstead,  with — 

“ And  your  Lordship  will  excuse  my  saying,  that  to  put  the 
cottages  into  the  state  in  which  your  Lordship,  with  your  known 
wish  for  progress  of  all  kinds,  would  wish  to  see  them,  is  a 
responsibility  which  I dare  not  take  on  myself,  as  it  would  involve 
a present  outlay  of  not  less  than  450£.  This  sum  would  be 
certainly  repaid  to  your  Lordship  and  your  tenants,  in  the  course 
of  the  next  three  years,  by  the  saving  in  poor-rates ; an  opinion 
for  which  I subjoin  my  grounds  drawn  from  the  books  of  the 
medical  officer,  Mr.  Heale : but  the  responsibility  and  possible 
unpopularity,  which  employing  so  great  a sum  would  involve,  is 
more  than  I can,  in  the  present  dependent  condition  of  poor-law 
medical  officers,  dare  to  undertake,  in  justice  to  Mr.  Heale  my 
employer,  save  at  your  special  command.  I am  bound,  however, 
to  inform  your  Lordship,  that  this  outlay  would,  I think,  perfectly 
defend  the  hamlets,  not  only  from  that  visit  of  the  cholera  which 
we  have  every  reason  to  expect  next  summer,  but  also  from  those 
zymotic  diseases  which  (as  your  Lordship  will  see  by  my  returns) 
make  up  more  than  sixty-five  per  cent,  of  the  aggregate  sickness 
of  the  estate.” 

Which  letter  the  old  Cotton  Lord  put  in  his  pocket,  rode  into 
Whitbury  therewith,  and  showed  it  to  Mark  Armsworth. 

“ Well,  Mr.  Armsworth,  what  am  I to  do  ? 

“ Well,  my  Lord ; I told  you  what  sort  of  a man  you’d  have 
to  do  with ; one  that  does  his  work  thoroughly,  and,  I think, 
pays  you  a compliment,  by  thinking  that  you  want  it  done 
thoroughly.” 

Lord  Minchampstead  was  of  the  same  opinion ; but  he  did  not 
say  so.  Few,  indeed,  have  ever  heard  Lord  Minchampstead  give 
his  opinion  : though  many  a man  has  seen  him  act  on  it. 

“ I’ll  send  down  orders  to  my  agent.” 

“ Don’t.” 

“ Why,  then,  my  good  friend  ? ” 

“ Agents  are  always  in  league  with  farmers,  or  guardians,  or 
builders,  or  drain-tile  makers,  or  attorneys,  or  bankers,  or  some- 
body ; and  either  you’ll  be  told  that  the  work  don’t  need  doing ; 
or  have  a job  brewed  out  of  it,  to  get  off  a lot  of  unsaleable  drain- 


“ AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  ? 


133 


tiles,  or  cracked  soil-pans  ; or  to  get  farm  ditches  dug,  and  perhaps 
the  highway  rates  saved  building  culverts,  and  fifty  dodges  beside. 
I know  their  game;  and  you  ought,  too,  by  now,  my  Lord, 
begging  your  pardon.” 

“ Perhaps  I do,  Mark,”  said  his  Lordship  with  a chuckle. 

“ So,  I say,  let  the  man  that  found  the  fox  run  the  fox,  and 
kill  the  fox,  and  take  the  brush  home.” 

“ And  so  it  shall  be,”  quoth  my  Lord  Minchampstead. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

“AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER?” 

But  what  was  the  mysterious  bond  between  La  Cordifiamma 
and  the  American,  which  had  prevented  Scoutbush  from  following 
the  example  of  his  illustrious  progenitor,  and  taking  a viscountess 
from  off  the  stage  ] 

Certainly,  anyone  who  had  seen  her  with  him  on  the  morning 
after  Scoutbush’s  visit  to  the  Mellots,  would  have  said  that,  if 
the  cause  was  love,  the  love  was  all  on  one  side. 

She  was  standing  by  the  fireplace  in  a splendid  pose,  her  arm 
resting  on  the  chimney-piece,  the  book  from  which  she  had  been 
reciting  in  one  hand,  the  other  playing  in  her  black  curls,  as  her 
eyes  glanced  back  ever  and  anon  at  her  own  profile  in  the  mirror. 
Stangrave  was  half  sitting  in  a low  chair  by  her  side,  half 
kneeling  on  the  footstool  before  her,  looking  up  beseechingly,  as 
she  looked  down  tyrannically. 

“ Stupid,  this  reciting]  Of  course  it  is  ! I want  realities,  not 
shams  ; life,  not  the  stage  ; nature,  not  art.” 

“Throw  away  the  book,  then,  and  words,  and  art,  and  live !” 

She  knew  well  what  he  meant ; but  she  answered  as  if  she 
had  misunderstood  him. 

“ Thanks,  I live  already,  and  in  good  company  enough.  My 
ghost-husbands  are  as  noble  as  they  are  obedient ; do  all  which  I 
demand  of  them,  and  vanish  on  my  errands  when  I tell  them. 
Can  you  guess  who  my  last  is  ] Since  I tired  of  Eginont,  I have 
taken  Sir  Galahad,  the  spotless  knight.  Did  you  ever  read  the 
Mort  d Arthur  1 ” 

“A  hundred  times.” 

“Of  course  !”  and  she  spoke  in  a tone  of  contempt  so  strong 
that  it  must  have  been  affected.  “ What  have  you  not  read  ] 
And  wbat  have  you  copied  ] No  wonder  that  these  English 
have  been  what  they  have  been  for  centuries,  while  their  heroes 
have  been  the  Galahads,  and  their  Homer  the  Mort  d’ Arthur.” 


134 


AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  1 ” 


“ Enjoy  yonr  Utopia  !”  said  lie  bitterly.  “ Do  you  fancy  the;y 
acted  up  to  their  ideals  ? They  dreamed  of  the  Quest  of  the 
Sangreal : hut  which  of  them  ever  wTent  upon  it  ? ” 

“And  does  it  count  for  nothing  that  they  felt  it  the  finest 
thing  in  the  world  to  have  gone  on  it,  had  it  been  possible  ? Be 
sure  if  their  ideal  was  so  self-sacrificing,  so  lofty,  their  practice 
was  ruled  by  something  higher  than  the  almighty  dollar.” 

“ And  so  are  some  other  men’s,  Marie,”  answered  he  reproach- 
fully. 

“ Yes,  forsooth;— when  the  almighty  dollar  is  there  already, 
and  a man  has  ten  times  as  much  to  spend  every  day  as  he  car 
possibly  invest  in  French  cookery,  and  wines,  and  fine  clothes 
then  he  begins  to  lay  out  his  surplus  nobly  on  self-education,  and 
the  patronage  of  art,  and  the  theatre — for  merely  aesthetic  pur- 
poses, of  course  ; and  when  the  lust  of  the  flesh  has  been  satisfied 
thinks  himself  an  archangel,  because  he  goes  on  to  satisfy  the 
lust  of  the  eye  and  the  pride  of  life.  Christ  was  of  old  the 
model,  and  Sir  Galahad  was  the  hero.  How  the  one  is  exchanged 
for  Goethe,  and  the  other  for  Wilhelm  Meister.” 

“ Cruel ! You  know  that  my  Goethe  fever  is  long  past.  How 
would  you  have  known  of  its  existence  if  I had  not  confessed  it 
to  you  as  a sin  of  old  years  ? Have  I not  said  to  you,  again  and 
again,  show  me  the  thing  which  you  would  have  me  do  for  your 
sake,  and  see  if  I will  not  do  it  ! ” 

“ For  my  sake  ? A noble  reason  ! Show  yourself  the  thing 
which  you  will  do  for  its  own  sake ; because  it  ought  to  be  done. 
Show  it  yourself,  I say ; I cannot  show  you.  If  your  own  eyes 
cannot  see  the  Sangreal,  and  the  angels  who  are  bearing  it  before 
you,  it  is  because  they  are  dull  and  gross ; and  am  I Milton’s 
archangel,  to  purge  them  with  euphrasy  and  rue  ? If  you  have 
a noble  heart,  you  will  find  for  yourself  the  noblest  Quest.  If 
not,  who  can  prove  to  you  that  it  is  noble?”  And  tapping 
impatiently  with  her  foot,  she  went  on  to  herself — 

“ A gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 

With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 

Ah,  blessed  vision  ! blood  of  God  ! 

The  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 

As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars.” 

“ Why,  there  was  not  a knight  of  the  round  table,  was  ther&, 
who  did  not  give  up  all  to  go  upon  that  Quest,  though  only  one 
was  found  worthy  to  fulfil  it  ? But  now-a-days,  the  knights  sit 
drinking  hock  and  champagne,  or  drive  sulky-wagons,  and  never 
fancy  that  there  is  a Quest  at  all.” 


135 


“ AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  ? ” 

“Why  talk  in  these  parables  ?” 

“ So  the  Jews  asked  of  their  prophets.  They  are  no  parables 
to  my  ghost-hnsband  Sir  Galahad.  How  go,  if  you  please ; I 
must  he  busy,  and  write  letters.” 

He  rose  with  a look,  half  of  disappointment,  half  amused,  and 
yet  his  face  bore  a firmness  which  seemed  to  say,  “You  will  be 
mine  yet.”  As  he  rose,  he  cast  his  eye  upon  the  writing-table, 
and  upon  a letter  which  lay  there  : and  as  he  did  so,  his  cheek 
grew  pale,  and  his  brows  knitted. 

The  letter  was  addressed  to  “Thomas  Thurnall,  Esq., 
Aberalva.” 

“Is  this,  then,  your  Sir  Galahad?”  asked  he,  after  a pause, 
during  which  he  had  choked  down  his  rising  jealousy,  while  she 
looked  first  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  then  at  him,  and  then  at 
herself  again,  with  a determined  and  triumphant  air. 

“ And  what  if  it  be  ?” 

“ So  he,  then,  has  achieved  the  Quest  of  the  Sangreal  ?” 

Stangrave  spoke  bitterly,  and  with  an  emphasis  upon  the 
“ he and — 

“ What  if  he  have  ? Do  you  know  him  ?”  answered  she,  while 
her  face  lighted  up  with  eager  interest,  which  she  did  not  care 
to  conceal,  perhaps  chose,  in  her  woman’s  love  of  tormenting, 
to  parade. 

“ I knew  a man  of  that  name  once,”  he  replied,  in  a carefully 
careless  tone,  which  did  not  deceive  her;  “an  adventurer — a 
doctor,  if  I recollect — who  had  been  in  Texas  and  Mexico,  and 
I know  not  where  besides.  Agreeable  enough  he  was ; but  as 
for  your  Quest  of  the  Sangreal,  whatever  it  may  be,  he  seemed 
to  have  as  little  notion  of  anything  beyond  his  own  interest  as 
any  Greek  I ever  met.” 

“ Unjust ! Your  words  only  show  how  little  you  can  see  t 
That  man,  of  all  men  I ever  met,  saw  the  Quest  at  once,  and 
followed  it,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life,  as  far  at  least  as  he  was 
concerned  with  it : — ay,  even  when  he  pretended  to  see  nothing. 
Oh,  there  is  more  generosity  in  that  man’s  affected  selfishness, 
than  in  all  the  noisy  good-nature  which  I have  met  with  in  the 
world.  Thurnall ! oh,  you  know  his  nobleness  as  little  as  he 
knows  it  himself.” 

“Then  he,  I am  to  suppose,  is  your  phantom-husband,  for  as 
long,  at  least,  as  your  present  dream  lasts?”  asked  he,  with  white, 
compressed  lips. 

“ He  might  have  been,  I believe,”  she  answered  carelessly,  “ if 
he  had  even  taken  the  trouble  to  ask  me.” 

“ Marie,  this  is  too  much  ! Do  you  not  know  to  whom  you 
speak  ? To  one  who  deserves,  if  not  common  courtesy,  at  least 
common  mercy.” 


136 


“AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  1 ” 


“ Because  lie  adores  me,  and  so  fortli  ? So  lias  many  a man 
done ; or  told  me  that  he  has  done  so.  Do  you  know  that  I 
might  he  a viscountess  to-morrow,  so  Sabina  informs  me,  if  I hub 
chose  V 9 

“ A viscountess  ] Pray  accept  your  effete  English  aristocrat, 
and,  as  far  as  I am  concerned,  accept  my  best  wishes  for  your 
happiness.” 

“ My  effete  English  aristocrat,  did  I show  him  that  pedigree 
of  mine  which  I have  ere  now  threatened  to  show  you,  would 
perhaps  he  less  horrified  at  it  than  you  are.” 

“ Marie,  I cannot  hear  this  ! Tell  me  only  what  you  mean. 
What  care  I for  pedigree  ? I want  you — worship  you — and  that 
is  enough,  Marie !” 

“You  admire  me  because  I am  beautiful.  What  thanks  do  I 
owe  you  for  finding  out  so  patent  a fact  ? What  do  you  do 
more  to  me  than  I do  to  myself  h ” and  she  glanced  back  once 
more  at  the  mirror. 

“ Marie,  you  know  that  your  words  are  false  ; I do  more — ” 

“You  admire  me,”  interrupted  she,  “ because  I am  clever. 
What  thanks  to  you  for  that,  again  ] What  do  you  do  more  to 
me  than  you  do  to  yourself  ] ” 

“And  this,  after  all — ” 

“ After  what  ? After  you  found  me,  or  rather  I found  you — 
you  the  critic,  the  arbiter  of  the  green-room,  the  highly-organized 
do-nothing — teaching  others  how  to  do  nothing  most  gracefully ; 
the  would-be  Goethe  who  must,  for  the  sake  of  his  own  self- 
development, try  experiments  on  every  weak  woman  whom  he 
met.  And  I,  the  new  phenomenon,  whom  you  must  appreciate 
to  show  your  own  taste,  patronise  to  show  your  own  liberality, 
develop  to  show  your  own  insight  into  character.  You  found 
yourself  mistaken  ! You  had  attempted  to  play  with  the  tigress 
— and  behold  she  was  talons ; to  angle  for  the  silly  fish — and 
behold  the  fish  was  the  better  angler,  and  caught  you.” 

“ Marie,  have  mercy  ! Is  your  heart  iron 

“Ho ; but  fire,  as  my  name  shows  :”  and  she  stood  looking 
down  on  him  with  a glare  of  dreadful  beauty. 

“ Eire,  indeed !” 

“Yes,  fire,  that  I may  scorch  you,  kindle  you,  madden  you, 
to  do  my  work,  and  wear  the  heart  of  fire  which  I wear  day  and 
night !” 

Stangrave  looked  at  her  startled.  Was  she  mad  ] Her  face 
did  not  say  so ; her  brow  was  white,  her  features  calm,  her  eye 
fierce  and  contemptuous,  hut  clear,  steady,  full  of  meaning. 

“ So  you  know  Mr.  ThurnalU”  said  she,  after  a while. 

“ Yes  ; why  do  you  ask  V ’ 

“ Because  he  is  the  only  friend  I have  on  earth.” 


“AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER? 


137 


“ Tlie  only  friend,  Marie  V9 

“ The  only  one,”  answered  she  calmly,  “ who,  seeing  the  right, 
has  gone  and  done  it  forthwith.  When  did  you  see  him  last  ?” 

“ I have  not  been  acquainted  with  Mr.  Thurnall  for  some 
years,”  said  Stangrave,  haughtily. 

“ In  plain  words,  you  have  quarrelled  with  him  V9 
Stangrave  bit  his  lip. 

“ He  and  I had  a difference.  He  insulted  my  nation,  and  we 
parted.” 

She  laughed  a long,  loud,  bitter  laugh,  which  rang  through 
Stangrave’s  ears. 

“ Insulted  your  nation?  And  on  what  grounds,  pray  ?” 

“ About  that  accursed  slavery  question !” 

La  Cordifiamma  looked  at  him  with  hrm-closed  lips  a while. 

“ So,  then  ! I was  not  aware  of  this  ! Even  so  long  ago  you 
saw  the  Sangreal,  and  did  not  know  it  when  you  saw  it.  Ho 
■wonder  that  since  then  you  have  been  staring  at  it  for  months, 
in  your  very  hands,  played  with  it,  admired  it,  made  verses  about 
it,  to  show  off  your  own  taste : and  yet  were  blind  to  it  the 
whole  time  ! Earewell,  then  !” 

“ Marie,  what  do  you  mean  ? ” and  Stangrave  caught  both  her 
hands. 

“ Hush,  if  you  please.  I know  you  are  eloquent  enough, 
when  yoit  choose,  though  you  have  been  somewhat  dumb  and 
monosyllabic  to-night  in  the  presence  of  the  actress  whom  you 
undertook  to  educate.  But  I know  that  you  can  be  eloquent, 
so  spare  me  any  brilliant  appeals,  which  can  only  go  to  prove 
that  already  settled  fact.  Between  you  and  me  lie  two  great 
gulfs.  The  one  I have  told  you  of;  and  from  it  I shrink.  The 
other  I have  not  told  you  of ; from  it  you  would  shrink.” 

“ The  first  is  your  Quest  of  the  Sangreal.” 

She  smiled  assent,  bitterly  enough. 

“ And  the  second  ? ” 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  looking  at  herself  in  the 
mirror ; and  Stangrave,  in  spite  of  his  almost  doting  affectio  i, 
flushed  with  anger,  almost  contempt,  at  her  vanity. 

And  yet,  was  it  vanity  which  was  expressed  in  that  face  ? 
Ho  ; but  dread,  horror,  almost  disgust,  as  she  gazed  with  side- 
long, startled  eyes,  struggling,  and  yet  struggling  in  vain,  to  turn 
her  face  from  some  horrible  sight,  as  if  her  own  image  had  been 
the  Gorgon’s  head. 

“ What  is  it  ? Marie,  speak  ! ” 

But  she  answered  nothing.  For  that  last  question  she  had  no 
heart  to  answer ; no  heart  to  tell  him  that  in  her  veins  were 
some  drops,  at  least,  of  the  blood  of  slaves.  Instinctively  she 
had  looked  round  at  the  mirror — for  might  he  not,  if  he  had 


138 


“AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER?” 


eyes,  discover  that  secret  for  himself?  Were  there  not  in  her 
features  traces  of  that  taint  ? And  as  she  looked, — was  it  the 
mere  play  of  her  excited  fancy, — or  did  her  eyelid  slope  more 
and  more,  her  nostril  shorten  and  curl,  her  lips  enlarge,  her 
mouth  itself  protrude  ? 

It  was  more  than  the  play  of  fancy ; for  Stangrave  saw  it  as 
well  as  she.  Her  actress’s  imagination,  fixed  on  the  African  type 
with  an  intensity  proportioned  to  her  dread  of  seeing  it  in  her- 
self, had  moulded  her  features,  for  the  moment,  into  the  very 
shape  which  it  dreaded.  And  Stangrave  saw  it,  and  shuddered 
as  he  saw. 

Another  half  minute,  and  that  face  also  had  melted  out  of  the 
mirror,  at  least  for  Marie’s  eyes ; and  in  its  place  an  ancient 
negress,  white-haired,  withered  as  the  ‘wrinkled  ape,  hut  with 
eyes  closed — in  death.  Marie  knew  that  face  well ; a face  which 
haunted  many  a dream  of  hers ; once  seen,  hut  never  forgotten 
since ; for  to  that  old  dame’s  coffin  had  her  mother,  the  gay 
quadroon  woman,  flaunting  in  finery  which  was  the  price  of 
shame,  led  Marie  when  she  was  hut  a three  years’  child  ; and 
Marie  had  seen  her  bend  over  the  corpse,  and  call  it  her  dear 
old  granny,  and  weep  hitter  tears. 

Suddenly  she  shook  off  the  spell,  and  looked  round  and  down, 
terrified,  self-conscious.  Her  eye  caught  Stangrave’s ; she  saw, 
or  thought  she  saw,  by  the*  expression  of  his  face,  that  he  knew 
all,  and  burst  away  with  a shriek. 

He  sprang  up  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  “ Marie  ! Beloved 
Marie  ! ” She  looked  up  at  him  struggling  ; the  dark  expression 
had  vanished,  and  Stangrave’s  love-blinded  eyes  could  see  nothing 
in  that  face  but  the  refined  and  yet  rich  beauty  of  the  Italian. 

“ Marie,  this  is  mere  madness ; you  excite  yourself  till  you 
know  not  what  you  say,  or  what  you  are — •” 

“ I know  what  I am,”  murmured  she  : but  he  hurried  on  un- 
heeding. 

“You  love  me,  you  know  you  love  me ; and  you  madden 
yourself  by  refusing  to  confess  it ! ” He  felt  her  heart  throb  as 
he  spoke,  and  knew  that  he  spoke  truth.  “What  gulfs  are 
these  you  dream  of?  Ho ; I will  not  ask.  There  is  no  gulf 
between  me  and  one  whom  I adore,  who  has  thrown  a spell  over 
me  which  I cannot  resist,  which  I glory  in  not  resisting ; for 
you  have  been  my  guide,  my  morning  star,  which  has  awakened 
me  to  new  life.  If  I have  a noble  purpose  upon  earth,  if  I have 
roused  myself  from  that  conceited  dream  of  self- culture  which 
now  looks  to  me  so  cold,  and  barren,  and  tawdry,  into  the  hope 
of  becoming  useful,  beneficent — to  whom  do  I owe  it  but  to  you, 
Marie  ? Ho  ; there  is  no  gulf,  Marie  ! You  are  my  wife,  and 
you  alone  ! ’ And  he  held  her  so  firmly,  and  gazed  down  upon 


AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  h 


139 


her  with  such  strong  manhood,  that  her  woman’s  heart  quailed  , 
and  he  might,  perhaps,  have  conquered  then  and  there,  had  not 
Sabina,  summoned  by  her  shriek,  entered  hastily. 

“ Good  heavens  ! what  is  the  matter  ? ” 

“Wait  but  one  minute,  Mrs.  Mellot,”  said  he;  “the  next,  I 
shall  introduce  you  to  my  bride.” 

“Never!  never!  never!”  cried  she,  and  breaking  from  him,  flew 
into  Sabina’s  arms.  “ Leave  me,  leave  me  to  bear  my  curse  alone  ! ” 

And  she  broke  out  into  such  wild  weeping,  and  refused  so 
wildly  to  hear  another  word  from  Stangrave,  that  he  went  away 
in  despair,  the  prize  snatched  from  his  grasp  in  the  very  moment 
of  seeming  victory. 

He  went  in  search  of  Claude,  who  had  agreed  to  meet  him  at 
the  Exhibition  in  Trafalgar  Square.  Thither  Stangrave  rolled 
away  in  his  cab,  his  heart  full  of  many  thoughts.  Marie’s  words 
about  him,  though  harsh  and  exaggerated,  were  on  the  whole 
true.  She  had  fascinated  him  utterly.  To  marry  her  was  now 
the  one  object  of  his  life  : she  had  awakened  in  him,  as  he  had 
confessed,  noble  desires  to  be  useful : but  the  discovery  that  he 
was  to  be  useful  to  the  negro,  that  abolition  was  the  Sangreal  in 
the  quest  of  which  he  was  to  go  forth,  was  as  disagreeable  a 
discovery  as  he  could  well  have  made. 

Eronr  public  life  in  any  shape,  with  all  its  vulgar  noise,  its 
petty  chicanery,  its  pandering  to  the  mob  whom  he  despised,  he 
had  always  shrunk,  as  so  many  Americans  of  his  stamp  have 
done.  He  had  no  wish  to  struggle,  unrewarded  and  disappointed, 
in  the  ranks  of  the  minority ; while  to  gain  place  and  power  on 
the  side  of  the  majority  was  to  lend  himself  to  that  fatal  policy 
which,  ever  since  the  Missouri  Compromise  of  1820,  has  been 
gradually  making  the  northern  states  more  and  more  the  tools  of 
the  southern  ones.  He  had  no  wish  to  be  threatened  in  Congress 
with  having  his  Northerner’s  “ ears  nailed  to  the  counter,  like 
his  own  base  coin,”  or  to  be  informed  that  he,  with  the 
17,000,000  of  the  north,  were  the  “White  Slaves”  of  a southern 
aristocracy  of  350,000  slaveholders.  He  had  enough  compre 
hension  of,  enough  admiration  for  the  noble  principles  of  the 
American  Constitution  to  see  that  the  democratic  mobs  of  Irish 
and  Germans,  who  were  stupidly  playing  into  the  hands  of  the 
Southerners,  were  not  exactly  carrying  them  out ; but  he  had 
no  mind  to  face  either  Irish  or  Southerners.  The  former  were 
too  vulgar  for  his  delicacy;  the  latter  too  aristocratic  for  his 
pride.  Sprung,  as  he  held  (and  rightly),  from  as  fine  old  English 
blood  as  any  Virginian  (though  it  did  happen  to  be  Puritan,  and 
not  Cavalier),  he  had  no  lust  to  come  into  contact  with  men 
who  considered  him  much  further  below  them  in  rank  than  an 
English  footman  is  below  an  English  nobleman ; who,  indeed, 


140  u AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER?” 

would  some  of  them  look  down  on  the  English  nobleman  him- 
self as  a mushroom  of  yesterday.  So  he  compounded  with  his 
conscience  by  ignoring  the  whole  matter,  and  by  looking  on  the 
state  of  public  affairs  on  his  side  of  the  Atlantic  with  a cynicism 
which  very  soon  (as  is  usual  with  rich  men)  passed  into  Epicu- 
reanism. Poetry  and  music,  pictures  and  statues,  amusement 
and  travel,  became  his  idols,  and  cultivation  his  substitute  for 
the  plain  duty  of  patriotism;  and  wandering  luxuriously  over 
the  world,  he  learnt  to  sentimentalize  over  cathedrals  and 
monasteries,  pictures  and  statues,  saints  and  kaisers,  with  a lazy 
regret  that  such  “ forms  of  beauty  and  nobleness  ” were  no  longer 
possible  in  a world  of  scrip  and  railroads  : but  without  any 
notion  that  it  was  his  duty  to  reproduce  in  his  own  life,  or  that 
of  his  country,  as  much  as  he  could  of  the  said  beauty  and  noble- 
ness. And  now  he  was  sorely  tried.  It  was  interesting  enough 
to  “ develop  ” the  peculiar  turn  of  Marie’s  genius,  by  writing 
for  her  plays  about  liberty,  just  as  he  would  have  written 
plays  about  jealousy,  or  anything  else  for  representing  which 
she  had  “ capabilities.”  But  to  be  called  on  to  act  in  that 
Slavery  question,  the  one  on  which  he  knew  (as  all  sensible 
Americans  do)  that  the  life  and  death  of  his  country  depended, 
and  which  for  that  very  reason  he  had  carefully  ignored  till  a 
more  convenient  season,  finding  in  its  very  difficulty  and  danger 
an  excuse  for  leaving  it  to  solve  itself : — to  have  this  thrust  on 
him,  and  by  her,  as  the  price  of  the  thing  which  he  must  have, 
or  die ! If  she  had  asked  for  his  right  hand,  he  would  have 
given  it  sooner ; and  he  entered  the  Eoyal  Academy  that  day  in 
much  the  same  humour  as  that  of  a fine  lady  who  should  find 
herself  suddenly  dragged  from  the  ball-room  into  the  dust-hole, 
in  her  tenderest  array  of  gauze  and  jewels,  and  there  peremp- 
torily compelled  to  sift  the  cinders,  under  the  superintendence 
of  the  sweep  and  the  pot-boy. 

Glad  to  escape  from  questions  which  he  had  rather  not  answer 
too  soon,  he  went  in  search  of  Claude,  and  found  him  before  one 
of  those  pre-Raphaelite  pictures,  which  Claude  does  not  appre- 
ciate as  he  ought. 

“ Desinit  in  Culicem  mulier  formosa  superne,”  said  Sfangrave, 
as  he  looked  over  Claude’s  shoulder;  “ but  I suppose  he  followed 
nature,  and  copied  his  model.” 

“ That  he  didn’t,”  said  Claude,  “ for  I know  who  his  model 
was : but  if  he  did,  he  had  no  business  to  do  so.  I object  on 
principle  to  these  men’s  notion  of  what  copying  nature  means. 

I don’t  deny  him  talent.  I am  ready  to  confess  that  there  is 
more  imagination  and  more  honest  work  in  that  picture  than  in 
any  one  in  the  room.  The  hysterical,  all  but  grinning  joy  upon 
the  mother’s  face  is  a miracle  of  truth  : I have  seen  the  expres- 


AM  I NOT  1 WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  ? ” 


141 


sion  more  than  once  ; doctors  see  it  often,  in  the  sudden  revul- 
sion from  terror  and  agony  to  certainty  and  peace ; I only  marvel 
where  he  ever  met  it : but  the  general  effect  is  unpleasing,  marred 
by  patches  of  sheer  ugliness,  like  that  child’s  foot.  There  is  the 
same  mistake  in  all  his  pictures.  Whatever  they  are,  they  are 
not  beautiful ; and  no  magnificence  of  surface-colouring  will  make 
up,  in  my  eyes,  for  wilful  ugliness  of  form.  I say  that  nature  is 
beautiful ; and  therefore  nature  cannot  have  been  truly  copied, 
or  the  general  effect  would  have  been  beautiful  also.  I never 
found  out  the  fallacy  till  the  other  day,  when  looking  at  a por- 
trait by  one  of  them.  The  woman  for  whom  it  was  meant  was 
standing  by  my  side,  young  and  lovely ; the  portrait  hung  there 
neither  young  nor  lovely,  but  a wrinkled  caricature  twenty  years 
older  than  the  model.” 

“ I surely  know  the  portrait  you  mean  ; — Lady  D ’s.” 

“Yes.  He  had  simply,  under  pretence  of  following  nature, 
caricatured  her  into  a woman  twenty  years  older  than  she  is.” 
“But  did  you  ever  see  a modern  portrait  which  more  per- 
fectly expressed  character ; which  more  completely  fulfilled  the 
requirements  which  you  laid  down  a few  evenings  since  ? ” 
“Never;  and  that  makes  me  all  the  more  cross  with  the 
wilful  mistake  of  it.  He  had  painted  every  wrinkle.” 

“ Why  not,  if  they  were  there  ? ” 

“ Because  he  had  painted  a face  not  one-twentieth  of  the  size 
of  life.  What  right  had  he  to  cram  into  that  small  space  all  the 
marks  which  nature  had  spread  over  a far  larger  one  ? ” 

“ Why  not,  again,  if  he  diminished  the  marks  in  proportion?” 
“ Just  what  neither  he  nor  any  man  could  do,  without  making 
them  so  small  as  to  be  invisible,  save  under  a microscope : and 
the  result  was,  that  he  had  caricatured  every  wrinkle,  as  his 
friend  has  in  those  horrible  knuckles  of  Shem’s  wife.  Besides,  I 
deny  utterly  your  assertion  that  one  is  bound  to  paint  what  is 
there.  On  that  very  fallacy  are  they  all  making  shipwreck.” 
“Not  paint  what  is  there ? And  you  are  the  man  who  talks 
of  art  being  highest  when  it  copies  nature.” 

“ Exactly.  And  therefore  you  must  paint,  not  what  is  there, 
but  what  you  see  there.  They  forget  that  human  beings  are 
men  with  two  eyes,  and  not  daguerreotype  lenses  with  one  eye, 
and  so  are  contriving  and  striving  to  introduce  into  their  pictures 
the  very  defect  of  the  daguerreotype  which  the  stereoscope  is 
required  to  correct.” 

“ I comprehend.  They  forget  that  the  double  vision  of  our 
two  eyes  gives  a softness,  and  indistinctness,  and  roundness,  to 
every  outline.” 

“ Exactly  so  ; and  therefore,  while  for  distant  landscapes, 
motionless,  and  already  softened  by  atmosphere,  the  daguerreo- 


142 


AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  1 


type  is  invaluable  (I  shall  do  nothing  else  this  summer  but  work 
at  it),  yet  for  taking  portraits,  in  any  true  sense,  it  will  be 
always  useless,  not  only  for  the  reason  I just  gave,  but  for 
another  one  which  the  pre-Raphaelites  have  forgotten.” 

“ Because  all  the  features  cannot  be  in  focus  at  once  1 ” 

“ Oh  no,  I am  not  speaking  of  that.  Art,  for  aught  I know, 
may  overcome  that ; for  it  is  a mere  defect  in  the  instrument. 
What  I mean  is  this  : it  tries  to  represent  as  still  what  never  yet 
was  still  for  the  thousandth  part  of  a second : that  is,  the  human 
face  ; and  as  seen  by  a spectator  who  is  perfectly  still,  which  no 
man  ever  yet  was.  My  dear  fellow,  don’t  you  see  that  what  some 
painters  call  idealizing  a portrait  is,  if  it  be  wisely  done,  really 
painting  for  you  the  face  which  you  see,  and  know,  and  love  ; 
her  ever-shifting  features,  with  expression  varying  more  rapidly 
than  the  gleam  of  the  diamond  on  her  finger ; features  which 
you,  in  your  turn,  are  looking  at  with  ever-shifting  eyes ; while, 
perhaps,  if  it  is  a face  which  you  love  and  have  lingered  over,  a 
dozen  other  expressions  equally  belonging  to  it  are  hanging  in 
your  memory,  and  blending  themselves  with  the  actual  picture 
on  your  retina : — till  every  little  angle  is  somewhat  rounded, 
every  little  wrinkle  somewhat  softened,  every  little  shade  some- 
what blended  with  the  surrounding  light,  so  that  the  sum  total 
of  what  you  see,  and  are  intended  by  Heaven  to  see,  is  some- 
thing far  softer,  lovelier — younger,  perhaps,  thank  Heaven — 
than  it  would  look  if  your  head  was  screwed  down  in  a vice,  to 
look  with  one  eye  at  her  head  screwed  down  in  a vice  also  : — 
though  even  that,  thanks  to  the  muscles  of  the  eye,  would  not 
produce  the  required  ugliness ; and  the  only  possible  method  of 
fulfilling  the  pre-Raphaelite  ideal  would  be,  to  set  a petrified 
Cyclops  to  paint  his  petrified  brother.” 

“ You  are  spiteful.” 

“Hot  at  all.  I am  standing  up  for  art,  and  for  nature  too. 
Bor  instance  : Sabina  has  wrinkles.  She  says,  too,  that  she  has 
grey  hairs  coming.  The  former  I won’t  see,  and  therefore  don’t , 
The  latter  I can’t  see,  because  I am  not  looking  for  them.” 

“ Hor  I either,”  said  Stangrave,  smiling.  “I  assure  you  the 
announcement  is  new  to  me.” 

“Of  course.  Who  can  see  wrinkles  in  the  light  of  those  eyes, 
that  smile,  that  complexion  ? ” 

“ Certainly,”  said  Stangrave,  “ if  I asked  for  her  portrait,  as  I 
shall  do  some  day,  and  the  artist  sat  down  and  painted  the  said 
‘ wastes  of  time,’  on  pretence  of  their  being  there,  I should  con- 
sider it  an  impertinence  on  his  part.  What  business  has 
he  to  spy  out  what  nature  is  taking  such  charming  trouble  to 
conceal  h ” 

“ Again,”  said  Claude,  “ such  a face  as  Cordifiamma’s.  When 


“AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  ? 


143 


it  is  at  rest,  in  deep  thought,  there  are  lines  in  it  which  utterly 
puzzle  one — touches  which  are  Eastern,  Kabyle,  almost  Quad- 
roon.” 

Stangrave  started.  Claude  went  on  unconscious  : — 

“But  who  sees  them  in  the  light  of  that  beauty?  They  are 
defects,  no  doubt,  but  defects  which  no  one  would  observe  with- 
out deep  study  of  the  face.  They  express  her  character  no  more 
than  a scar  would ; and  therefore  when  I paint  her,  as  I must 
and  will,  I shall  utterly  ignore  them.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
met  the  same  lines  in  a face  which  I knew  to  have  Quadroon 
blood  in  it,  I should  religiously  copy  them;  because  then  they 
would  be  integral  elements  of  the  face.  You  understand  ? ” 

“ Understand  ? — yes,”  answered  Stangrave,  in  a tone  which 
made  Claude  look  up. 

That  strange  scene  of  half  an  hour  before  flashed  across  him. 
What  if  it  were  no  fancy  ? What  if  Marie  had  African  blood  in 
her  veins  ? And  Stangrave  shuddered,  and  felt  for  the  moment 
that  thousands  of  pounds  would  be  a cheap  price  to  pay  for  the 
discovery  that  his  fancy  was  a false  one. 

“Yes — oh — I beg  your  pardon,”  said  he,  recovering  himself. 
“ I was  thinking  of  something  else.  But,  as  you  say,  what  if 
she  had  Quadroon  blood  ? ” 

“ I ? I never  said  so,  or  dreamt  of  it.” 

“ Oh  ! I mistook.  Do  you  know,  though,  where  she  came 
' from  ? ” 

“I ? You  forget,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  yourself  introduced 
her  to  us.” 

“Of  course;  but  I thought  Mrs.  Mellot  might  — women 
always  makes  confidences.” 

“ All  we  know  is,  what  I suppose  you  knew  long  ago,  that  her 
most  intimate  friend,  next  to  you,  seems  to  be  an  old  friend  of 
ours,  named  Thurnall.” 

“ An  old  friend  of  yours  ? ” 

“ Oh  yes ; we  have  known  him  these  fifteen  years.  Met  him 
first  at  Paris ; and  after  that  went  round  the  world  with  him, 
and  saw  infinite  adventures.  Sabina  and  I spent  three  months 
with  him  once,  among  the  savages  in  a South-sea  Island,  and  a 
very  pretty  romance  our  stay  and  our  escape  would  make.  We 
were  all  three,  I believe,  to  have  been  cooked  and  eaten,  if  Tom 
had  not  got  us  off  by  that  wonderful  address  which,  if  you  know 
him,  you  must  know  well  enough.” 

“ Yes,”  answered  Stangrave,  coldly,  as  in  a dream ; “ I have 
known  Mr.  Thurnall  in  past  years  ; but  not  in  connexion  with 
La  Signora  Cordifiamma.  I was  not  aware  till  this  moment— 
this  morning,  I mean — that  they  knew  each  other.” 

“You  astound  me  ; why,  she  talks  of  him  to  us  all  day  long, 


144  “AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  ?” 

as  of  one  to  whom  she  has  the  deepest  obligations ; she  was 
ready  to  rush  into  our  arms  when  she  first  found  that  we  knew 
him.  He  is  a greater  hero  in  her  eyes,  I sometimes  fancy,  than 
even  you  are.  She  does  nothing  (or  fancies  that  she  does 
nothing,  for  you  know  her  pretty  wilfulness)  without  writing  for 
his  advice.” 

“Ia  hero  in  her  eyes  ? I was  really  not  aware  of  that  fact,” 
said  Stangrave,  more  coldly  than  ever ; for  hitter  jealousy  had 
taken  possession  of  his  heart.  “Do  you  know,  then,  what  this 
same  obligation  may  be  ? ” 

“I  never  asked.  I hate  gossiping,  and  I make  a rule  to 
inquire  into  no  secrets  but  such  as  are  voluntarily  confided  to 
me  ; and  I know  that  she  has  never  told  Sabina.” 

“ I suppose  she  is  married  to  him.  That  is  the  simplest 
explanation  of  the  mystery.” 

“Impossible!  What  can  you  mean?  If  she  ever  marries 
living  man,  she  will  marry  you.” 

“Then  she  will  never  marry  living  man,”  said  Stangrave  to 
himself.  “ Good-bye,  my  dear  fellow  ; 1 have  an  engagement  at 
the  Traveller’s.”  And  away  went  Stangrave,  leaving  Claude 
sorely  puzzled,  but  little  dreaming  of  the  powder-magazine  into 
which  he  had  put  a match. 

But  he  was  puzzled  still  more  that  night,  when  by  the  latest 
post  a note  came — 

“ From  Stangrave  !”  said  Claude.  “ Why,  in  the  name  of  all 
wonders  ! ” — and  he  read  : — 

“ Good-bye.  I am  just  starting  for  the  Continent,  on  sudden 
and  urgent  business.  What  my  destination  is  I hardly  can  tell 
you  yet.  You  will  hear  from  me  in  the  course  of  the  summer.” 

Claude’s  countenance  fell,  and  the  note  fell  likewise.  Sabina 
snatched  it  up,  read  it,  and  gave  La  Cordifiamma  a look  which 
made  her  spring  from  the  sofa,  and  snatch  it  in  turn. 

She  read  it  through,  with  trembling  hands,  and  blanching 
cheeks,  and  then  dropped  fainting  upon  the  floor. 

They  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and  while  they  were  recovering  her, 
Claude  told  Sabina  the  only  clue  which  he  had  to  the  American’s 
conduct,  namely,  that  afternoon’s  conversation. 

Sabina  shook  her  head  over  it ; for  to  her,  also,  the  American’s 
explanation  had  suggested  itself.  Was  Marie  Thurnall’s  wife  ? 
Or  did  she — it  was  possible,  however  painful — stand  to  him  in 
some  less  honourable  relation,  which  she  would  fain  forget  now, 
in  a new  passion  for  Stangrave  ? For  that  Marie  loved  Stangrave, 
Sabina  knew  well  enough. 

The  doubt  was  so  ugly  that  it  must  be  solved ; and  when  she 
had  got  the  poor  thing  safe  into  her  bed-room  she  alluded  to  it 
as  gently  as  she  could. 


“ AM  I NOT  A WOMAN  AND  A SISTER  ? ” 


145 


Marie  sprang  up  in  indignant  innocence. 

“ He?  Whatever  he  may  be  to  others,  I know  not : but  to 
me  he  has  been  purity  and  nobleness  itself — a brother,  a father  ! 
Yes ; if  I had  no  other  reason  for  trusting  him,  I should  love  him 
for  that  alone ; that  however  tempted  he  may  have  been,  and 
Heaven  knows  he  was  tempted,  he  could  respect  the  honour  of 
his  friend,  though  that  friend  lay  sleeping  in  a soldier's  grave  ten 
thousand  miles  away.” 

And  Marie  threw  herself  upon  Sabina’s  neck,  and  under  the 
pressure  of  her  misery  sobbed  out  to  her  the  story  of  her  life. 
What  it  was  need  not  be  told.  A little  common  sense,  and  a 
little  knowledge  of  human  nature,  will  enable  the  reader  to  hll 
up  for  himself  the  story  of  a beautiful  slave. 

Sabina  soothed  her,  and  cheered  her ; and  soothed  and  cheered 
her  most  of  all  by  telling  her  in  return  the  story  of  her  own  life ; 
not  so  dark  a one,  but  almost  as  sad  and  strange.  And  poor 
Marie  took  heart,  when  she  found  in  her  great  need  a sister  in 
the  communion  of  sorrows. 

“ And  you  have  been  through  all  this,  so  beautiful  and  bright 
as  you  are  ! You  whom  I should  have  fancied  always  living  the 
life  of  the  humming-bird  : and  yet  not  a scar  or  a wrinkle  has  it 
left  behind  !” 

“ They  were  there  once,  Marie  ; but  God  and  Claude  smoothed 
them  away.” 

“ I have  no  Claude, — and  no  God,  I think,  at  times.” 

“ Ho  God,  Marie  ! Then  how  did  you  come  hither  ? ” 

Marie  was  silent,  reproved  ; and  then  passionately — 

“ Why  does  He  not  right  my  people  ? ” 

That  question  was  one  to  which  Sabina's  little  scheme  of  the 
universe  had  no  answer ; why  should  it,  while  many  a scheme 
which  pretends  to  be  far  vaster  and  more  infallible  has  none  as  yet  ? 

So  she  was  silent,  and  sat  with  Marie's  head  upon  her  bosom, 
caressing  the  black  curls,  till  she  had  soothed  her  into  sobbing 
exhaustion. 

“ There  ; lie  there  and  rest : you  shall  be  my  child,  my  poor 
Marie.  I have  a fresh  child  every  week  ; but  I shall  find  plenty 
of  room  in  my  heart  for  you,  my  poor  hunted  deer.” 

“You  will  keep  my  secret  ? ” 

“Why  keep  it?  Ho  one  need  be  ashamed  of  it  here  in  free 
England.” 

“But  he — he — you  do  not  know,  Sabina!  Those  northerners, 
with  all  their  boasts  of  freedom,  shrink  from  us  just  as  much  as 
our  own  masters.” 

“ Oh,  Marie,  do  not  be  so  unjust  to  him  ! He  is  too  noble, 
and  you  must  know  it  yourself.” 

“ Ay,  if  he  stood  alone ; if  he  were  even  going  to  live  in 

L 


146 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


England;  if  lie  would  let  himself  he  himself;  hut  public 
opinion,”  sohhed  the  poor  self-tormentor — “ It  has  heen  his 
God,  Sabina,  to  he  a leader  of  taste  and  fashion — admired  and 
complete — the  Crichton  of  Newport  and  Brooklyn.  And  he 
could  not  hear  scorn,  the  loss  of  society.  Why  should  he  hear 
it  for  me?  If  he  had  heen  one  of  the  abolitionist  party,  it 
would  have  heen  different : hut  he  has  no  sympathy  with  them, 
good,  narrow,  pious  people,  or  they  with  him : he  could  not  he 
satisfied  in  their  society — or  I either,  for  I crave  after  it  all  as 
much  as  he — wealth,  luxury,  art,  brilliant  company,  admiration, 
— oh,  inconsistent  wretch  that  I am  ! And  that  makes  me  love 
him  all  the  more,  and  yet  makes  me  so  harsh  to  him,  wickedly 
cruel,  as  I was  to-day ; because  when  I am  reproving  his  weak- 
ness, I am  reproving  my  own,  and  because  I am  angry  with 
myself,  I grow  angry  with  him  too — envious  of  him,  I do  believe 
at  moments,  and  all  his  success  and  luxury ! ” 

And  so  poor  Marie  sohhed  out  her  confused  confession  of  that 
strange  double  nature  which  so  many  Quadroons  seem  to  owe 
to  their  mixed  blood ; a strong  side  of  deep  feeling,  ambition, 
energy,  an  intellect  rather  Greek  in  its  rapidity  than  English  in 
sturdiness ; and  withal  a weak  side,  of  instability,  inconsistency, 
hasty  passion,  love  of  present  enjoyment,  sometimes,  too.,  a 
tendency  to  untruth,  which  is  the  mark,  not  perhaps  of  the 
African  specially,  hut  of  every  enslaved  race. 

Consolation  was  all  that  Sabina  could  give.  It  was  too  late 
to  act.  Stangrave  was  gone,  and  week  after  week  rolled  by 
without  a line  from  the  wanderer. 


CHAP  TEE  X. 

THE  RECOGNITION. 

Elsley  Yavasour  is  sitting  one  morning  in  his  study,  every 
comfort  of  which  is  of  Lucia’s  arrangement  and  invention, 
beating  the  home-preserve  of  his  brains  for  pretty  thoughts. 
On  he  struggles  through  that  wild,  and  too  luxuriant  cover ; 
now  brought  up  by  a “lawyer,”  now  stumbling  over  a root, 
now  bogged  in  a green  spring,  now  flushing  a stray  covey  of 
birds  of  Paradise,  now  a sphinx,  chimsera,  strix,  lamia,  fire- 
drake,  flying-donkey,  two-headed  eagle  (Austrian,  as  will  appear 
shortly),  or  other  portent  only  to  be  seen  now-a-days  in  the 
recesses  of  that  enchanted  forest,  the  convolutions  of  a poet’s 
brain.  Up  they  whir  and  rattle,  making,  like  most  game,  more 
noise  than  they  are  worth.  Some  get  back,  some  dodge  among 
the  trees  ; the  fair  shots  are  few  and  far  between:  but  Elsley 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


147 


blazes  away  right  and  left  with  trusty  quill;  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  seldom  misses  his  aim,  for  practice  has  made  him  a sure 
and  quick  marksman  in  his  own  line.  Moreover,  all  is  game 
which  gets  up  to-day ; for  he  is  shooting  for  the  kitchen,  or 
rather  for  the  London  market,  as  many  a noble  sportsman  does 
now  a-days,  and  thinks  no  shame.  His  new  volume  of  poems 
(“The  Wreck”  included)  is  in  the  press  : but  behold,  it  is  not 
as  long  as  the  publisher  thinks  fit,  and  Messrs.  Brown  and 
Younger  have  written  down  to  entreat  in  haste  for  some  four 
hundred  lines  more,  on  any  subject  which  Mr.  Vavasour  may 
choose.  And  therefore  is  Elsley  beating  his  home  covers, 
heavily  shot  over  though  they  have  been  already  this  season, 
in  hopes  that  a few  head  of  his  own  game  may  still  be  left : or 
in  default  (for  human  nature  is  the  same,  in  poets  and  in  sports- 
men), that  a few  head  may  have  strayed  in  out  of  his  neigh- 
bours’ manors. 

At  last  the  sport  slackens ; for  the  sportsman  is  getting  tired, 
and  hungry  also,  to  carry  on  the  metaphor ; for  he  has  seen  the 
postman  come  up  the  front  walk  a quarter  of  an  hour  since,  and 
the  letters  have  not  been  brought  in  yet. 

At  last  there  is  a knock  at  the  door,  which  he  answers  by 
a somewhat  testy  “come  in.”  But  he  checks  the  coming  grum- 
ble, when  not  the  maid,  but  Lucia  enters. 

Why  not  grumble  at  Lucia  ? He  has  done  so  many  a time. 

Because  she  looks  this  morning  so  charming ; really  quite 
pretty  again,  so  radiant  is  her  face  with  smiles.  And  because, 
also,  she  holds  triumphant  above  her  head  a newspaper. 

She  dances  up  to  him — 

“ I have  something  for  you.” 

“ For  me  1 Wh y,  the  post  has  been  in  this  half-hour.” 

“ Yes,  for  you,  and  that’s  just  the  reason  why  I kept  it  myself. 
D’ye  understand  my  Irish  reasoning  h ” 

“Ho,  you  pretty  creature,”  said  Elsley,  who  saw  that  what- 
ever the  news  was,  it  was  good  news. 

“ Pretty  creature,  ami?  I was  once,  I know ; but  I thought 
you  had  forgotten  all  about  that.  But  I was  not  going  to  let 
you  have  the  paper  till  I had  devoured  every  word  of  it  myself 
first.” 

“ Every  word  of  what  1 ” 

“ Of  what  you  shan’t  have  unless  you  promise  to  be  good  for 
a week.  Such  a Review ; and  from  America ! What  a dear 
man  he  must  be  who  wrote  it ! I really  think  I should  kiss 
him  if  I met  him.” 

“ And  I really  think  he  would  not  say  no.  But  as  he’s  not 
here,  I shall  act  as  his  proxy.” 

“ Be  quiet,  and  read  that,  if  you  can,  for  blushes and  she 
L 2 


148 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


spread  out  the  paper  before  him,  and  then  covered  his  eyes 
with  her  hands.  “ hTo,  you  shan’t  see  it ; it  will  make  you 
vain.” 

Elsley  had  looked  eagerly  at  the  honeyed  columns ; (as  who 
would  not  have  done  ?)  hut  the  last  word  smote  him.  What  was 
he  thinking  of  ? his  own  praise,  or  his  wife’s  love  h 

“Too  true,”  he  cried,  looking  up  at  her.  “You  dear  creature  ! 
Yain  I am,  God  forgive  me : hut  "before  I look  at  a word  of  this 
I must  have  a talk  with  you.” 

“1  can’t  stop;  I must  run  hack  to  the  children.  ISTo ; now 
don’t  look  cross;”  as  his  brow  clouded,  “I  only  said  that  to 
tease  you.  I’ll  stop  with  you  ten  whole  minutes,  if  you  won’t 
look  so  very  solemn  and  important.  I hate  tragedy  faces.  How 
what  is  it  1 ” 

As  all  this  was  spoken  while  both  her  hands  were  clasped 
round  Elsley’s  neck,  and  with  looks  and  tones  of  the  very  sweet- 
est  as  well  as  the  very  sauciest,  no  offence  was  given,  and  none 
taken  : hut  Elsley’s  voice  was  sad  as  he  asked, — 

“ So  you  really  do  care  for  my  poems  '!  ” 

“You  great  silly  creature  ! Why  else  did  I marry  you  at  all 
As  if  I cared  for  anything  in  the  world  but  your  poems ; as  if  I 
did  not  love  everybody  who  praises  them;  and  if  any  stupid 
reviewer  dares  to  say  a word  against  them  I could  kill  him  on  the 
spot.  I care  for  nothing  in  the  world  but  what  people  say  of  you, 
— And  yet  I don’t  care  one  pin ; I know  what  your  poems  are, 
if  nobody  else  does ; and  they  belong  to  me,  because  you  belong 
to  me,  and  I must  be  the  best  judge,  and  care  for  nobody,  no 
not  I ! ” — And  she  began  singing,  and  then  hung  over  him, 
tormenting  him  lovingly  while  he  read. 

It  was  a true  American  review,  utterly  extravagant  in  its  lauda- 
tions, whether  from  over-kindness,  or  from  a certain  love  of  exag- 
geration and  magniloquence,  which  makes  one  suspect  that  a 
large  proportion  of  the  Transatlantic  gentlemen  of  the  press  must 
be  natives  of  the  sister  isle  : but  it  was  all  the  more  pleasant  to 
the  soul  of  Elsley. 

“ There,”  said  Lucia,  as  she  clung  croodling  to*  him ; “ there  is 
a pretty  character  of  you,  Sir  ! Make  the  most  of  it,  for  it  is  all 
those  Yankees  will  ever  send  you.” 

“Yes,”  said  Elsley,  “ if  they  would  send  one  a little  money, 
instead  of  making  endless  dollars  by  printing  one’s  books,  and 
then  a few  more  by  praising  one  at  a penny  a line.” 

“ That’s  talking  like  a man  of  business  : if  instead  of  the  re- 
view, now,  a cheque  for  fifty  pounds  had  come,  how  I would  have 
rushed  out  and  paid  the  bills  ! ” 

“ And  liked  it  a great  deal  better  than  the  review  ? ” 

“You  jealous  creature  ! hTo.  If  I could  always  have  you 


THE  RECOGNITION.  149 

praised,  I’d  live  in  a cabin,  and  go  about  the  world  barefoot, 
like  a wild  Irish  girl.’, 

“ You  would  make  a very  charming  one.” 

“ I used  to,  once,  I can  tell  you.  Valencia  and  I used  to  run 
about  without  shoes  and  stockings  at  Kilanbaggan,  and  you  can’t 
think  how  pretty  and  white  this  little  foot  used  to  look  on  a 
nice  soft  carpet  of  green  moss.” 

“ I shall  write  a sonnet  to  it.” 

“ You  may  if  you  choose,  provided  you  don’t  publish  it.” 
“You  may  trust  me  for  that.  I am  not  one  of  those  who 
anatomise  their  own  married  happiness  for  the  edification  of  the 
whole  public,  and  make  fame,  if  not  money,  out  of  their  own 
wives’  hearts.” 

“ How  I should  hate  you,  if  you  did ! Hot  that  I believe 
their  fine  stories  about  themselves.  At  least,  I am  certain  it’s 
only  half  the  story.  They  have  their  quarrels,  my  dear,  just  as 
you  and  I have : but  they  take  care  not  to  put  them  into 
poetry.” 

“ Well,  but  who  could  » Whether  they  have  a right  or  not 
to  publish  the  poetical  side  of  their  married  life,  it  is  too  much 
to  ask  them  to  give  you  the  unpoetical  also.” 

“ Then  they  are  all  humbugs  ; and  I believe,  if  they  really 
love  their  wives  so  very  much,  they  would  not  be  at  all  that 
pains  to  persuade  the  world  of  it.” 

“You  are  very  satirical  and  spiteful,  Ma’am.” 

“ I always  am  when  I am  pleased.  If  I am  particularly 
happy,  I always  long  to  pinch  somebody.  I suppose  it’s  Irish — - 

1 Comes  out,  meets  a friend,  and  for  love  knocks  him  down.’  ” 

“ But  you  know,  you  rogue,  that  you  care  to  read  no  poetry 
but  love  poetry.” 

“ Of  course  not ; every  woman  does ; but  let  me  find  you 
publishing  any  such  about  me,  and  see  what  I will  do  to  you  ! 
There,  now  I must  go  to  my  work,  and  you  go  and  write  some- 
thing extra-superfinely  grand,  because  I have  been  so  good  to 
you.  Ho.  Let  me  go  ; what  a bother  you  are.  Good-bye.” 
And  away  she  tripped,  and  he  returned  to  his  work,  happier 
than  he  had  been  for  a week  past. 

His  happiness,  truly,  was  only  on  the  surface.  The  old 
wound  had  been  salved — as  what  wound  cannot  be  ? — by 
woman’s  love  and  woman’s  wit : but  it  was  not  healed.  The 
cause  of  his  wrong  doing,  the  vain,  self-indulgent  spirit,  was 
there  still  unchastened ; and  he  was  destined,  that  very  day,  to 
find  that  he  had  still  to  bear  the  punishment  of  it. 

How  the  reader  must  understand,  that  though  one  may  laugh 
at  Elsley  Vavasour,  because  it  is  more  pleasant  than  scolding  at 


.150 


THE  KECOGNITION. 


him,  yet  have  Philistia  and  Pogeydom  neither  right  nor  reason 
to  consider  him  a despicable  or  merely  ludicrous  person,  or  t& 
cry,  “ Ah,  if  he  had  heen  as  we  are  !” 

Had  he  heen  merely  ludicrous,  Lucia  would  never  have  married 
him ; and  he  could  only  have  heen  spoken  of  with  indignation,  or 
left  utterly  out  of  the  story,  as  a simply  unpleasant  figure,  heyond 
the  purposes  of  a novel,  though  admissible  now  and  then  into 
tragedy.  One  cannot  heartily  laugh  at  a man  if  one  has  not  a 
lurking  love  for  him,  as  one  really  ought  to  have  for  Elsley. 
How  much  value  is  to  he  attached  to  his  mere  power  of  imagina- 
tion and  fancy,  and  so  forth,  is  a question ; hut  there  was  in  him 
more  than  mere  talent : there  was,  in  thought  at  least,  virtue  and 
magnanimity. 

True,  the  best  part  of  him,  perhaps  almost  all  the  good  part  of 
him,  spent  itself  in  words,  and  must  he  looked  for,  not  in  his 
life,  hut  in  his  hooks.  But  in  those  hooks  it  can  he  found ; and 
if  you  look  through  them,  you  will  see  that  he  has  not  touched 
upon  a subject  without  taking,  on  the  whole,  the  right,  and  pure, 

. and  lofty  view  of  it.  Howsoever  extravagant  he  may  he  in  his 
notions  of  poetic  licence,  that  licence  is  never  with  him  a syno- 
nyme  for  licentiousness.  Whatever  is  tender  and  true,  whatever 
is  chivalrous  and  high-minded,  he  loves  at  first  sight,  and  repro- 
duces it  lovingly.  And  it  may  he  possible  that  his  own  estimate 
•of  his  poems  was  not  altogether  wrong ; that  his  words  may  have 
awakened  here  and  there  in  others  a love  for  that  which  is 
morally  as  well  as  physically  beautiful,  and  may  have  kept  alive 
in  their  hearts  the  recollection  that,  both  for  the  bodies  and  the 
souls  of  men  forms  of  life  far  nobler  and  fairer  than  those  which 
we  see  now  are  possible ; that  they  have  appeared,  in  fragments 
at  least,  already  on  the  earth ; that  they  are  destined,  perhaps, 
to  reappear  and  combine  themselves  in  some  ideal  state,  and  in 

“ One  far-off  divine  event, 

Toward  which  the  whole  creation  moves.” 

This  is  the  special  and  proper  function  of  the  poet ; that  he 
may  do  this,  does  God  touch  his  lips  with  that  which,  however 
it  may  he  misused,  is  still  fire  from  off  the  altar  beneath  which 
the  spirits  of  his  saints  cry, — “ Lord,  how  long?”  If  he  “ re- 
produce the  beautiful”  with  this  intent,  however  so  little,  then 
is  he  of  the  sacred  guild.  And  because  Yavasour  had  this  gift, 
therefore  he  was  a poet. 

But  in  this  he  was  weak  : that  he  did  not  feel,  or  at  least  was 
forgetting  fast,  that  this  gift  had  been  bestowed  on  him  for  any 
practical  purpose.  Ho  one  would  demand  that  he  should  have 
gone  forth  with  some  grand  social  scheme,  to  reform  a world 
which  looked  to  him  so  mean  and  evil.  He  was  not  a man  of 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


151 


business,  and  was  not  meant  to  be  one.  But  it  was  ill  for  bim 
that  in  his  fastidiousness  and  touchiness  he  had  shut  himself  out 
from  that  world,  till  he  had  quite  forgotten  how  much  good 
there  was  in  it  as  well  as  evil ; how  many  people — common- 
place and  unpoetical  it  may  be — but  still  heroical  in  God’s  sight, 
were  working  harder  than  he  ever  worked,  at  the  divine  drudgery 
of  doing  good,  and  that  in  dens  of  darkness  and  sloughs  of  filth 
from  which  he  would  have  turned  with  disgust ; so  that  the 
sympathy  with  the  sinful  and  fallen  which  marks  his  earlier 
poems,  and  which  perhaps  verges  on  sentimentalism,  gradually 
gives  place  to  a Pharisaic  and  contemptuous  tone ; a tone  more 
lofty  and  manful  in  seeming,  but  far  less  divine  in  fact.  Perhaps 
comparative  success  had  injured  him.  Whilst  struggling  himself 
against  circumstances,  poor,  untaught,  unhappy,  he  had  more 
fellow-feeling  with  those  whom  circumstance  oppressed.  At 
least,  the  pity  which  he  could  once  bestow  upon  the  misery 
which  he  met  in  his  daily  walks,  he  now  kept  for  the  more 
picturesque  woes  of  Italy  and  Greece. 

In  this,  too,  he  was  weak ; that  he  had  altogether  forgotten 
that  the  fire  from  off  the  altar  could  only  be  kept  alight  by  con- 
tinual self-restraint  and  self-sacrifice,  by  continual  gentleness  and 
humility,  shown  in  the  petty  matters  of  every-day  home-life; 
and  that  he  who  cannot  rule  his  own  household  can  never  rule 
the  Church  of  God.  And  so  it  befell,  that  amid  the  little  cross- 
blasts of  home  squabbles  the  sacred  spark  was  fast  going  out. 
The  poems  written  after  he  settled  at  Penalva  are  marked  by  a 
less  definite  purpose,  by  a lower  tone  of  feeling  : not,  perhaps, 
by  a lower  moral  tone ; bk  t simply  by  less  of  any  moral  tone  at 
all.  They  are  more  and  more  full  of  merely  sensuous  beauty, 
mere  word-painting,  mere  word-hunting.  The  desire  of  finding- 
something  worth  saying  gives  place  more  and  more  to  that  of 
saying  something  in  a new  fashion.  As  the  originality  of  thought 
(which  accompanies  only  vigorous  moral  purpose)  decreases,  the 
attempt  at  originality  of  language  increases.  Manner,  in  short, 
has  taken  the  place  of  matter.  The  art,  it  may  be,  of  his  latest 
poems  is  greatest : but  it  has  been  expended  on  the  most  un- 
worthy themes.  The  later  are  mannered  caricatures  of  the 
earlier,  without  their  soul ; and  the  same  change  seems  to  have 
passed  over  him  which  (with  Mr.  Ruslan’s  pardon)  transformed 
the  Turner  of  1820  into  the  Turner  of  1850. 

Thus  had  Elsley  transferred  what  sympathy  he  had  left  from 
needle- women  and  ragged  schools,  dwellers  in  Jacob’s  Island  and 
sleepers  in  the  dry  arches  of  Waterloo  Bridge,  to  sufferers  of  a 
more  poetic  class.  Whether  his  sympathies  showed  thereby  that 
he  had  risen  or  fallen,  let  my  readers  decide  each  for  himself. 
It  is  a credit  to  any  man  to  feel  for  any  human  being ; and  Italy, 


152 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


as  she  is  at  this  moment,  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  tragic  spec- 
tacles which  the  world  has  ever  seen.  Elsley  need  not  he  blamed 
for  pitying  her;  only  for  holding,  with  most  of  our  poets,  a vague 
notion  that  her  woes  were  to  be  cured  by  a hair  of  the  dog  who 
bit  her;  viz.  by  homoeopathic  doses  of  that  same  “ art”  which 
has  been  all  along  her  morbid  and  self-deceiving  substitute  for 
virtue  and  industry.  So,  as  she  had  sung  herself  down  to  the 
nether  pit,  Elsley  would  help  to  sing  her  up  again ; and  had 
already  been  throwing  off,  ever  since  1848,  a series  of  sonnets 
which  he  entitled  Eurydice,  intimating,  of  course,  that  he  acted 
as  the  Orpheus.  Whether  he  had  hopes  of  drawing  iron  tears 
down  Pluto  Radetzky’s  cheek,  does  not  appear  ; but  certainly  the 
longer  poem  which  had  sprung  from  his  fancy,  at  the  urgent  call 
of  Messrs.  Erown  and  Younger,  would  have  been  likely  to  draw 
nothing  but  iron  balls  from  Radetzky’s  cannon;  or  failing  so 
7ast  an  effect,  an  immediate  external  application  to  the  poet 
himself  of  that  famous  herb  Pantagruelion,  cure  for  all  public 
ills  and  private  woes,  which  men  call  hemp.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  a noble  subject ; one  which  ought  surely  to  have  been  taken 
up  by  some  of  our  poets,  for  if  they  do  not  make  a noble  poem 
of  it,  it  will  be  their  own  fault.  I mean  that  sad  and  fantastic 
tragedy  of  Era  Dolcino  and  Margaret,  which  Signor  Mariotti  has 
lately  given  to  the  English  public,  in  a book  which,  both  for  its 
matter  and  its  manner,  should  be  better  known  than  it  is. 
Elsley’s  soul  had  been  filled  (it  would  have  been  a dull  one  else) 
with  the  conception  of  the  handsome  and  gifted  patriot-monk, 
his  soul  delirious  with  the  dream  of  realizing  a perfect  Church 
on  earth ; battling  with  tongue  and  pen,  and  at  last  with  sword, 
against  the  villanies  of  pope  and  kaiser,  and  all  the  old  devourers 
of  the  earth,  cheered  only  by  the  wild  love  of  her  who  had  given 
up  wealth,  fame,  friends,  all  which  render  life  worth  having,  to 
die  with  him  a death  too  horrible  for  words.  And  he  had  con- 
ceived (and  not  altogether  ill)  a vision,  in  which,  wandering  along 
some  bright  Italian  bay,  he  met  Dolcino  sitting,  a spirit  at  rest 
but  not  yet  glorified,  waiting  for  the  revival  of  that  dead  land 
for  which  he  had  died;  and  Margaret  by  him,  dipping  her 
scorched  feet  for  ever  in  the  cooling  wave,  and  looking  up  to  the 
hero  for  whom  she  had  given  up  all,  with  eyes  of  everlasting 
love.  There  they  were  to  prophesy  to  him  such  things  as  seemed 
fit  to  him,  of  the  future  of  Italy  and  of  Europe,  of  the  doom  of 
priests  and  tyrants,  of  the  sorrows  and  rewards  of  genius  unap- 
preciated and  before  its  age  ; for  Elsley’s  secret  vanity  could  see 
in  himself  a far  greater  likeness  to  Dolcino,  than  Dolcino — the 
preacher,  confessor,  bender  of  all  hearts,  man  of  the  world  and 
man  of  action,  at  last  crafty  and  all  but  unconquerable  guerilla 
warrior — would  ever  have  acknowledged  in  the  self-indulgent 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


153 


dreamer.  However,  it  was  a fair  conception  enough;  though 
perhaps  it  never  would  have  entered  Elsley’s  head,  had  Shelley 
never  written  the  opening  canto  of  the  Eevolt  of  Islam. 

So  Elsley,  on  a burning  July  forenoon,  strolled  up  the  lane 
and  over  the  down  to  King  Arthur’s  Hose,  that  he  might  find 
materials  for  his  sea-shore  scene.  Eor  he  was  not  one  of  those 
men  who  live  in  such  quiet,  every-day  communication  with 
nature,  that  they  drink  in  her  various  aspects  as  unconsciously 
as  the  air  they  breathe ; and  so  can  reproduce  them,  out  of  an 
inexhaustible  stock  of  details,  simply  and  accurately,  and  yet 
freshly  too,  tinged  by  the  peculiar  hue  of  the  mind  in  which 
they  have  been  long  sleeping.  He  walked  the  world,  either 
blind  to  the  beauty  round  him,  and  trying  to  compose  instead 
some  little  scrap  of  beauty  in  his  own  self-imprisoned  thoughts  ; 
o?  else  he  was  looking  out  consciously  and  spasmodically  for 
views,  effects,  emotions,  images ; something  striking  and  un- 
common which  would  suggest  a poetic  figure,  or  help  out  a 
description,  or  in  some  way  re-furnish  his  mind  with  thought. 
From  which  method  it  befell,  that  his  lamp  of  truth  was  too  often 
burnt  out  just  when  it  was  needed ; and  that,  like  the  foolish 
virgins,  he  had  to  go  and  buy  oil  when  it  was  too  late ; or  failing 
that,  to  supply  its  place  with  some  baser  artificial  material. 

That  day,  however,  he  vras  fortunate  enough  ; for  wrandering 
and  scrambling  among  the  rocks,  at  a dead  low  spring  tide,  he 
came  upon  a spot  which  vrould  have  made  a poem  of  itself 
better  than  all  Elsley  ever  wrote,  had  he,  forgetting  all  about 
Fra  Dolcino,  Italy,  priests,  and  tyrants,  set  down  in  black  and 
white  just  what  he  saw;  provided,  of  course,  that  he  had  patience 
first  to  see  the  same. 

It  was  none  other  than  that  ghastly  chasm  across  which 
Thurnall  had  been  so  miraculously  swept,  on  the  night  of  his 
shipwreck.  The  same  ghastly  chasm : but  ghastly  now  no 
longer ; and  as  Elsley  looked  down,  the  beauty  below  invited 
him,  and  the  coolness  also ; for  the  sun  beat  on  the  flat  rock 
above  till  it  scorched  the  feet,  and  dazzled  the  eye,  and  crisped 
up  the  blackening  sea- weeds ; while  every  sea-snail  crept  to  hide 
itself  under  the  bladder- tangle,  and  nothing  dared  to  peep  or 
stir  save  certain  grains  of  gunpowder,  which  seemed  to  have 
gone  mad,  so  merrily  did  they  hop  about  upon  the  surface  of  the 
fast  evaporating  salt-pools.  That  wonder,  indeed,  Elsley  stooped 
to  examine,  and  drew  back  his  hands  with  an  “ ugh ! ” and  a 
gesture  of  disgust,  when  he  found  that  they  were  “ nasty  little 
insects.”  For  Elsley  held  fully  the  poet’s  right  to  believe  that 
all  things  are  not  very  good ; none,  indeed,  save  such  as  suited 
his  eclectic  and  fastidious  taste  ; and  to  hold  (on  high  aesthetic 
grounds,  of  course)  toads  and  spiders  in  as  much  abhorrence  as 


154 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


does  any  boarding-school  girl.  However,  finding  some  rock  ledges 
which  formed  a natural  ladder,  down  he  scrambled,  gingerly 
enough,  for  he  was  neither  an  active  nor  a courageous  man. 
But,  once  down,  I will  do  him  the  justice  to  say,  that  for  five 
whole  minutes  he  forgot  all  about  Fra  Dolcino,  and,  what  was 
better,  about  himself  also. 

The  chasm  may  have  been  fifteen  feet  deep,  and  above,  about 
half  that  breadth;  but  below,  the  waves  had  hollowed  it  into 
dark  overhanging  caverns.  Just  in  front  of  him  a huge  boulder 
spanned  the  crack ; and  formed  a natural  doorway,  through 
which  he  saw,  like  a picture  set  in  a frame,  the  far-off  blue  sea 
softening  into  the  blue  sky  among  brown  Eastern  haze.  Amid 
the  haze  a single  ship  hung  motionless,  like  a white  cloud. 
Hearer,  a black  cormorant  floated  sleepily  along,  and  dived,  and 
rose  again.  Hearer  again,  long  lines  of  flat  tide-rock,  glittering 
and  quivering  in  the  heat,  sloped  gradually  under  the  waves,  till 
they  ended  in  half-sunken  beds  of  olive  oar-weed,  which  bent 
their  tangled  stems  into  a hundred  graceful  curves,  and  swayed 
to  and  fro  slowly  and  sleepily.  The  low  swell  slid  whispering 
among  their  floating  palms,  and  slipped  on  toward  the  cavern's 
mouth,  as  if  asking  wistfully  (so  Elsley  fancied)  when  it  would 
be  time  for  it  to  return  to  that  cool  shade,  and  hide  from  all 
the  blinding  blaze  outside.  But  when  his  eye  was  enough 
accustomed  to  the  shade  within,  it  withdrew  gladly  from  the 
glaring  sea  and  glaring  tide-rocks  to  the  walls  of  the  chasm 
itself ; to  curved  and  polished  sheets  of  stone,  rich  brown,  with 
snow-white  veins,  on  which  danced  for  ever  a dappled  network 
of  pale  yellow  light ; to  crusted  beds  of  pink  coralline  ; to 
caverns,  in  the  dark  crannies  of  which  hung  branching  spongeg 
and  tufts  of  purple  sea-moss ; to  strips  of  clear  white  sand, 
bestrewn  with  shells ; to  pools,  each  a gay  flower-garden  of  all 
hues,  where  branching  sea- weeds  reflected  blue  light  from  every 
point,  like  a thousand  damasked  sword-blades ; while  among  them, 
dahlias  and  chrysanthemums,  and  many  another  mimic  of  our 
earth-born  flowers,  spread  blooms  of  crimson,  and  purple,  and  lilac, 
and  creamy  grey,  half-buried  among  feathered  weeds  as  brightly 
coloured  as  they ; and  strange  and  gaudy  fishes  shot  across  from 
side  to  side,  and  chased  each  other  in  and  out  of  hidden  cells. 

Within  and  without  all  was  at  rest ; the  silence  was  broken 
only  by  the  timid  whisper  of  the  swell,  and  by  the  chime  of 
dropping  water  within  some  unseen  cave  : but  what  a different 
rest ! Without,  all  lying  breathless,  stupified,  sun-stricken,  in 
blinding  glare ; within,  all  coolness  and  refreshing  sleep.  With- 
out, all  simple,  broad,  and  vast;  within,  all  various,  with  infinite 
richness  of  form  and  colour. — An  Hairoun  Alraschid’s  bower, 
looking  out  upon  the — 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


155 


Bother  the  fellow ! Why  will  he  go  on  analysing  and  figuring 
in  this  way  ] Why  not  let  the  blessed  place  tell  him  what  it 
means,  instead  of  telling  it  what  he  thinks  1 And — why,  he  is 
actually  writing  verses,  though  not  about  Fra  Dolcino  ! 

4 4 How  rests  yon  rock,  whose  half-day’s  hath  is  done, 

With  broad  bright  side,  beneath  the  broad  bright  sun, 

Like  sea-nymph  tired,  on  cushioned  mosses  sleeping. 

Yet,  nearer  drawn,  beneath  her  purple  tresses, 

From  down-bent  brows  we  find  her  slowly  weeping 
So  many  a heart  for  cruel  man’s  caresses 
Must  only  pine  and  pine,  and  yet  must  bear 
A gallant  front  beneath  life’s  gaudy  glare.” 

Silly  fellow  ! Do  you  think  that  Nature  had  time  to  think  of 
such  a far-fetched  conceit  as  that  while  it  was  making  that  rock 
and  peopling  it  with  a million  tiny  living  things,  of  which  not 
one  falleth  to  the  ground  without  your  Father’s  knowledge,  and 
each  more  beautiful  than  any  sea-nymph  whom  you  ever  fancied  '] 
For,  after  all,  you  cannot  fancy  a whole  sea- nymph  (perhaps  in 
that  case  you  could  make  one),  but  only  a very  little  scrap  of  her 
outside.  Or  if,  as  you  boast,  you  are  inspired  by  the  Creative 
Spirit,  tell  us  what  the  Creative  Spirit  says  about  that  rock,  and 
not  such  verse  as  that,  the  lesson  of  which  you  don’t  yourself 
really  feel.  Pretty  enough  it  is,  perhaps  : but  in  your  haste  to 
say  a pretty  thing,  just  because  it  was  pretty,  you  have  not 
cared  to  condemn  yourself  out  of  your  own  mouth.  Why  were 
you  sulky,  Sir,  with  Mrs.  Yavasour  this  very  morning,  after  all 
that  passed,  because  she  would  look  over  the  washing-books, 
while  you  wanted  her  to  hear  about  Fra  Dolcino  % And  why, 
though  she  was  up  to  her  knees  among  your  dirty  shirts  when 
you  went  out,  did  you  not  give  her  one  parting  kiss,  which  would 
have  transfigured  her  virtuous  drudgery  for  her  into  a sacred 
pleasure  h One  is  heartily  glad  to  see  you  disturbed,  cross  though 
you  may  look  at  it,  by  that  sturdy  step  and  jolly  whistle  which 
burst  in  on  you  from  the  other  end  of  the  chasm,  as  Tom  Thurnall, 
with  an  old  smock  frock  over  his  coat  and  a large  basket  on  his 
arm,  comes  stumbling  and  hopping  towards  you,  dropping  every 
now  and  then  on  hands  and  knees,  and  turning  over  on  his  back, 
to  squeeze  his  head  into  some  muddy  crack,  and  then  withdraw 
it  with  the  salt  water  dripping  down  his  nose. 

Elsley  closed  his  eyes,  and  rested  his  head  on  his  hand  in  a 
somewhat  studied  44  pose.”  But  as  he  wished  not  to  be  inter- 
rupted, it  may  not  have  been  altogether  unpardonable  to  pretend 
sleep.  However,  the  sleeping  posture  had  exactly  the  opposite 
effect  to  that  which  he  designed. 
u Ah,  Mr.  Yavasour  ! ” 

“ Humph ! ” quoth  he  slowly,  if  not  sulkily. 


156 


THE  RECOGNITION* 


“ I admire  your  taste,  Sir ; a charming  summer-house  old 
Triton  has  vacated  for  your  use ; hut  let  me  advise  you  not  to 
go  to  sleep  in  it.” 

“ Why  then,  Sir  ? ” 

“ Because — It’s  no  business  of  mine,  of  course  : hut  the  tide 
has  turned  already ; and  if  a breeze  springs  up  old  Triton  will 
he  hack  again  in  a hurry,  and  in  a rage  also  ; and — I may 
possibly  lose  a good  patient.” 

Elsley,  who  knew  nothing  about  the  tides,  save  that  “the 
moon  wooed  the  ocean,”  or  some  such  important  fact,  thanked 
him  coolly  enough,  and  returned  to  a meditative  attitude.  Tom 
saw  that  he  was  in  the  seventh  heaven,  and  went  on  : hut  he 
had  not  gone  three  steps  before  he  pulled  up  short,  slapping  his 
hands  together  once,  as  a man  does  who  has  found  what  he 
wants ; and  then  plunged  up  to  his  knees  in  a rock  pool,  and 
then  began  working  very  gently  at  something  under  water. 

Elsley  watched  him  for  full  five  minutes  with  so  much  curi- 
osity, that,  despite  of  himself,  he  asked  him  what  he  was  doing. 

Tom  had  his  whole  face  under  water,  and  did  not  hear,  till 
Elsley  had  repeated  the  question. 

“ Only  a rare  zoophyte,”  said  he  at  last,  lifting  his  dripping 
visage,  and  gasping  for  breath  ; and  then  he  dived  again. 

“ Inexplicable  pedantry  of  science ! ” thought  Elsley  to  him- 
self, while  Tom  worked  on  steadfastly,  and  at  last  rose,  and, 
taking  out  a phial  from  his  basket,  was  about  to  deposit  in  it 
something  invisible. 

“Stay  a moment;  you  really  have  roused  my  curiosity  by 
your  earnestness.  May  I see  what  it  is  for  which  you  have 
taken  so  much  trouble  ? ” 

Tom  held  out  on  his  finger  a piece  of  slimy  crust  the  size  of  a 
halfpenny.  Elsley  could  only  shrug  his  shoulders. 

“ Nothing  to  you,  Sir,  I doubt  not ; but  worth  a guinea  to 
me,  even  if  it  be  only  to  mount  bits  of  it  as  microscopic  objects.” 

“ So  you  mingle  business  with  science  ? ” said  Elsley,  rather 
in  a contemptuous  tone. 

“Why  not?  I must  live,  and  my  father  too;  and  it  is  as 
honest  a way  of  making  money  as  any  other : I poach  in  no 
man’s  manor  for  my  game.” 

“ But  what  is  your  game  ? What  possible  attraction  in  that 
bit  of  dirt  can  make  men  spend  their  money  on  it  ? ” 

“You  shall  see,”  said  Tom,  dropping  it  into  the  phial  of  salt 
water,  and  offering  it  to  Elsley,  with  his  pocket  magnifier. 

“ Judge  for  yourself.” 

Elsley  did  so,  and  beheld  a new  wonder — a living  plant  of 
crystal,  studded  with  crystal  bells,  from  each  of  which  waved  a 
crown  of  delicate  arms.  It  was  the  first  time  that  Elsley  had 


THE  RECOGNITION.  157 

ever  seen  one  of  those  exquisite  zoophytes  which  stud  every  rock 
and  every  tuft  of  weed. 

4 1 This  is  most  beautiful/7  said  he  at  length. 

“ Humph  ! why  should  not  Mr.  Vavasour  write  a poem  about 
it?” 

44  Why  not,  indeed  ? ” thought  Elsley. 

44  It’s  no  business  of  mine,  no  man’s  less  : but  I often  wonder 
why  you  poets  don’t  take  to  the  microscope,  and  tell  us  a little 
more  about  the  wonderful  things  which  are  here  already,  and 
not  about  those  which  are  not,  and  which,  perhaps,  never  will 
be.” 

“Well,”  said  Elsley,  after  another  look  : “but,  after  all,  these 
things  have  no  human  interest  in  them.7 7 

“ I don’t  know  that ; they  have  to  me,  for  instance.  These 
are  the  things  which  I would  ’write  about  if  I had  any  turn  for 
verse,  not  about  human  nature,  of  which  I know,  I’m  afraid,  a 
little  too  much  already.  I always  like  to  read  old  4 Darwin’s 
Loves  of  the  Plants  / bosh  as  it  is  in  a scientific  point  of  view, 
it  amuses  one’s  fancy  without  making  one  lose  one’s  temper,  as 
one  must  when  one  begins  to  analyse  the  microscopic  ape  called 
self  and  friends.” 

“ You  would  like,  then,  the  old  Cosmogonies,  the  Eddas  and 
the  Vedas,”  said  Elsley,  getting  interested,  as  most  people  did 
after  five  minutes’  talk  with  the  cynical  doctor.  “ I suppose 
you  would  not  say  much  for  their  science ; but,  as  poetry,  they 
are  just  what  you  ask  for — the  expression  of  thoughtful  spirits, 
who  looked  round  upon  nature  with  awe-struck,  child-like  eyes, 
and  asked  of  all  heaven  and  earth  the  question,  4 What  are  you  ? 
How  came  you  to  be?7  Yet — it  may  be  my  fault — while  I 
admire  them,  I cannot  sympathise  ivith  them.  To  me,  this 
zoophyte  is  as  a being  of  another  sphere ; and  till  I can  create 
some  link  in  my  own  mind  between  it  and  humanity  it  is  as 
nothing  in  my  eyes.” 

44  There  is  link  enough,  Sir,  don’t  doubt,  and  chains  of  iron 
and  brass  too.” 

44  You  believe  then,  in  the  development  theory  of  the 
4 Vestiges’ ?” 

44  Doctors  who  have  their  bread  to  earn  never  commit  them- 
selves to  theories.  Ho  ; all  I meant  was,  that  this  little  zoophyte 
lives  by  the  same  laws  as  you  and  I ; and  that  he,  and  the  sea- 
weeds, and  so  forth,  teach  us  doctors  certain  little  rules  concern- 
ing life  and  death,  which  you  will  have  a chance  soon  of  seeing 
at  work  on  the  most  grand  and  poetical,  and  indeed  altogether 
tragic  scale.” 

44  What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

44  When  the  cholera  comes  here  as  it  will,  at  its  present  pace, 


158 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


before  the  end  of  the  summer,  then  I shall  nave  the  zoophytes 
rising  up  in  judgment  against  me,  if  I have  not  profited  by  a 
leaf  out  of  their  book.” 

“ The  cholera  ? ” said  Elsley  in  a startled  voice,  forgetting 
Tom’s  parables  in  the  new  thought.  For  Elsley  had  a dread  more 
nervous  than  really  coward  of  infectious  diseases  ; and  he  had 
also  (and  prided  himself,  too,  on  having)  all  Goethe’s  dislike  of 
anything  terrible  or  horrible,  of  sickness,  disease,  wounds,  death, 
anything  which  jarred  with  that  “ beautiful  ” which  was  his  idol. 

“ The  cholera  ? ” repeated  he.  “ I hope  not ; I wish  you  had 
not  mentioned  it,  Mr.  Thurnall.” 

UI  am  very  sorry  that  I did  so,  if  it  offends  you.  I had 
thought  that  forewarned  was  forearmed.  After  all,  it  is  no 
business  of  mine  ; if  I have  extra  labour,  as  I shall  have,  I shall 
have  extra  experience ; and  that  will  be  a fair  set-off,  even  if  the 
board  of  guardians  don’t  vote  me  an  extra  remuneration,  as  they 
ought  to  do.” 

Elsley  was  struck  dumb ; first  by  the  certainty  which  Tom’s 
words  expressed,  and  next  by  the  coolness  of  their  temper.  At 
last  he  stammered  out,  “ Good  heavens,  Mr.  Thurnall ! you  do 
not  talk  of  that  frightful  scourge — so  disgusting,  too,  in  its 
character — as  a matter  of  profit  and  loss  ? It  is  sordid,  cold- 
hearted  ! ” 

“ My  dear  Sir,  if  I let  myself  think,  much  more  talk,  about 
the  matter  in  any  other  tone,  I should  face  the  thing  poorly 
enough  when  it  came.  I shall  have  work  enough  to  keep  my 
head  about  the  end  of  August  or  beginning  of  September,  and  I 
must  not  lose  it  beforehand,  by  indulging  in  any  horror,  disgust, 
or  other  emotion  perfectly  justifiable  in  a layman.” 

“But  are  not  doctors  men?” 

“That  depends  very  much  on  what  ‘a  man’  means.” 

“ Men  with  human  sympathy  and  compassion.” 

“ Oh,  I mean  by  a man,  a man  with  human  strength.  My 
dear  Sir,  one  may  be  too  busy,  and  at  doing  good  too  (though 
that  is  not  my  line,  save  professionally,  because  it  is  my  only 
way  of  earning  money) ; but  one  may  be  too  busy  at  doing  good 
to  have  time  for  compassion.  If  while  I was  cutting  a man’s 
leg  off  I thought  of  the  pain  which  he  was  suffering — ” 

“Thank  Heaven!”  said  Elsley,  “that  it  was  not  my  lot  to 
become  a medical  man.” 

Tom  looked  at  him  with  the  quaintest  smile  : a flush  of 
mingled  anger  and  contempt  had  been  rising  in  him  as  he  heard 
the  ex-bottle  boy  talking  sentiment  : but  he  only  went  on  quietly, 
“ Ho,  Sir ; with  your  more  delicate  sensibilities,  you  may  thank 
Heaven  that  you  did  not  become  a medical  man  ; your  life  would 
have  been  one  of  torture,  disgust,  and  agonizing  sense  of  respon- 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


159 


sibility.  But  do  you  not  see  that  you  must  thank  Heaven  for 
the  sufferer’s  sake  also  ? I will  not  shock  you  again  by  talking 
of  amputation ; but  even  in  the  smallest  matter — even  if  you 
were  merely  sending  medicine  to  an  old  maid — suppose  that 
your  imagination  were  preoccupied  by  the  thought  of  her  old 
age,  her  sufferings,  her  disappointed  hopes,  her  regretful  dream 
of  bygone  youth,  and  beauty,  and  love,  and  all  the  tender 
fancies  which  might  well  spring  out  of  such  a mournful  spectacle, 
would  you  not  be  but  too  likely  (pardon  the  bathos)  to  end  by 
sending  her  an  elderly  gentleman’s  medicine  after  all,  and  so 
either  frightfully  increasing  her  sufferings,  or  ending  them  once 
for  all?” 

Tom  said  this  in  the  most  quiet  and  natural  tone,  without 
even  a twinkle  of  his  wicked  eye  : but  Elsley  heard  him  begin 
with  reddening  face ; and  as  he  went  on,  the  red  had  turned  to 
purple,  and  then  to  deadly  yellow;  till  making  a half-step 
forward  he  cried  fiercely  : — 

“ Sir  !”  and  then  stopped  suddenly ; for  his  feet  slipped  upon 
the  polished  stone,  and  on  his  face  he  fell  into  the  pool  at 
Thurnall’s  feet. 

“ Well  for  both  of  us  geese  !”  said  Tom  inwardly,  as  he  went 
to  pick  him  up.  “ I verily  believe  he  was  going  to  strike  me, 
and  that  would  have  done  for  neither  of  us.  I was  a fool  to  say 
it ; but  the  temptation  was  so  exquisite  ; and  it  must  have  come 
some  day.” 

But  Vavasour  staggered  up  of  his  own  accord,  and  dashing 
away  Tom’s  proffered  hand,  was  rushing  off  without  a word. 

“ Hot  so,  Mr.  John  Briggs  !”  said  Tom,  making  up  his  mind 
in  a moment  that  he  must  have  it  out  now,  or  never ; and  that 
he  might  have  everything  to  fear  from  Yavasour  if  he  let  him  go 
home  furious.  “We  do  not  part  thus,  Sir  ! ” 

“We  will  meet  again,  if  you  will,”  foamed  Yavasour,  “but  it 
shall  end  in  the  death  of  one  of  us  ! ” 

“ By  each  other’s  potions  ? I can  doctor  myself,  Sir,  thank 
you.  Listen  to  me,  John  Briggs  ! You  shall  listen  ! ” and  Tom 
sprang  past  him,  and  planted  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  rock 
steps,  to  prevent  his  escaping  upward. 

“ What,  do  you  wish  to  quarrel  with  me,  Sir  ? It  is  I who 
ought  to  quarrel  with  you.  I am  the  aggrieved  party,  and  not 
you,  Sir  ! I have  not  seen  the  son  of  the  man  who,  when  I was 
an  apothecary’s  boy,  petted  me,  lent  me  books,  introduced  me  as 
a genius,  turned  my  head  for  me — which  was  just  what  I was 
vain  enough  to  enjoy — I have  not  seen  that  man’s  son  cast 
ashore  penniless  and  friendless,  and  yet  never  held  out  to  him  a 
helping  hand,  but  tried  to  conceal  my  identity  from  him,  from 
a dirty  shame  of  my  honest  father’s  honest  name.” 


ICO 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


Vavasour  dropped  his  eyes,  for  was  it  not  true  1 but  he  raised 
them  again  more  fiercely  than  ever. 

“ Curse  you  ! I owe  you  nothing.  It  was  you  who  made 
me  ashamed  of  it.  You  rhymed  on  it,  and  laughed  about  poetry 
coming  out  of  such  a name.” 

“ And  what  if  I did  ] Are  poets  to  be  made  of  nothing 
but  tinder  and  gall  1 Why  could  you  not  take  an  honest  joke 
as  it  was  meant  and  go  your  way  like  other  people,  till  you  had 
shown  yourself  worth  something,  and  won  honour  even,  for  the 
name  of  Briggs  ] ” 

“ And  I have  ! I have  my  own  station  now,  my  own  fame, 
Sir,  and  it  is  nothing  to  you  what  I choose  to  call  myself.  I 
have  won  my  place,  I say,  and  your  mean  envy  cannot  rob  me 
of  it.?> 

“You  have  your  station.  Very  good/7  said  Tom,  not  caring 
to  notice  the  imputation ; “ you  owe  the  greater  part  of  it  to 
your  having  made  a most  fortunate  marriage,  for  which  I respect 
you,  as  a practical  man.  Let  your  poetry  be  what  it  may  (and 
people  tell  me  that  it  is  really  very  beautiful),  your  match 
shows  me  that  you  are  a clever,  and  therefore  a successful 
person.” 

“ Do  you  take  me  for  a sordid  schemer,  like  yourself  ] I loved 
what  was  worthy  of  me,  and  won  it  because  I deserved  it.” 

“ Then,  having  won  it,  treat  it  as  it  deserves,”  said  Tom,  with 
a cool,  searching  look,  before  which  Vavasour’s  eyes  fell  again. 
“ Understand  me,  Mr.  John  Briggs ; it  is  of  no  consequence  to 
me  what  you  call  yourself : but  it  is  of  consequence  to  me  that 
I should  not  have  a patient  in  my  parish  whom  I cannot  cure ; 
for  I cannot  cure  broken  hearts,  though  they  will  be  simple 
enough  to  come  to  me  for  medicine.” 

“You  shall  have  no  chance!  You  shall  never  enter  my 
house  ! You  shall  not  ruin  me,  Sir,  by  your  bills  ! ” 

Tom  made  no  answer  to  this  fresh  insult.  He  had  another 
game  to  play. 

“ Take  care  what  you  say,  Briggs  ; remember  that,  after  all, 
you  are  in  my  power,  and  I had  better  remind  you  plainly  of 
the  fact.” 

“ And  you  mean  to  make  me  your  tool  ? I will  die  first ! ” 

“ I believe  that,”  said  Tom,  who  was  very  near  adding,  “ that 
he  should  be  sorry  to  work  with  such  tools.” 

“ My  tools  are  my  lancet  and  my  drugs,”  said  he,  quietly, 
“ and  all  I have  to  say  refers  to  them.  It  suits  my  purpose  to 
become  the  principal  medical  man  in  this  neighbourhood — ” 

“ And  I am  to  tout  for  introductions  for  you  ? ” 

“You  are  to  be  so  very  kind  as  to  allow  me  to  finish  my 
sentence,  just  as  you  would  allow  any  other  gentleman;  and 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


161 


because  I wish  for  practice,  and  patients,  and  power,  you  will 
be  so  kind  as  to  treat  me  henceforth  as  one  high-minded  man 
would  treat  another,  to  whom  he  is  obliged.  For  you  know, 
John  Briggs,  as  well  as  I,”  said  Tom,  drawing  himself  up  to 
his  full  height,  “ look  me  in  the  face,  if  you  can,  ere  you  deny 
it,  that  I was,  while  you  knew  me,  as  honourable  a man  and  as 
kind-hearted  a man,  as  you  ever  were;  and  that  now — con- 
sidering the  circumstances  under  which  we  meet, — you  have 
more  reason  to  trust  me,  than  I have,  prima  facie,  to  trust  you.” 

Vavasour  answered  not  a word. 

“ Good-bye,  then,”  said  Tom,  drawing  aside  from  the  step  ; 
“ Mrs.  Vavasour  will  be  anxious  about  you.  And  mind  ! With 
regard  to  her  first  of  all,  Sir,  and  then  with  regard  to  other 
matters — as  long,  and  only  as  long,  as  you  remember  that  you 
are  John  Briggs  of  Whitbury,  I shall  be  the  first  to  forget  it. 
There  is  my  hand,  for  old  acquaintance’  sake.” 

Vavasour  took  the  proffered  hand  coldly,  paused  a moment, 
and  then  wrung  it  in  silence,  and  hurried  away  home. 

“ Have  I played  my  ace  ill  after  all  ? ” said  Tom,  sitting  down 
to  consider.  “ As  for  whether  I should  have  played  it  all,  that’s 
no  business  of  mine  now.  Madam  Might-have-been  may  see  to 
that.  But  did  I play  ill  ? for  if  I did,  I may  try  a new  lead 
yet.  Ought  I to  have  twitted  him  about  his  wife  ? If  he’s 
venomous,  it  may  only  make  matters  worse;  and  still  worse 
if  he  be  suspicious.  I don’t  think  he  was  either  in  old  times ; 
but  vanity  will  make  a man  so,  and  it  may  have  made  him. 
Well,  I must  only  ingratiate  myself  all  the  more  with  her  ; and 
find  out,  too,  whether  she  has  his  secret  as  well  as  I.  What  I 
am  most  afraid  of  is  my  having  told  him  plainly  that  he  was  in 
my  power ; it’s  apt  to  make  sprats  of  his  size  flounce  desperately, 
in  the  mere  hope  of  proving  themselves  whales  after  all,  if  it’s 
only  to  their  miserable  selves.  Never  mind ; he  can’t  break  my 
tackle ; and  besides,  that  gripe  of  the  hand  seemed  to  indicate 
that  the  poor  wretch  was  beat,  and  thought  himself  let  off  easily 
— as  indeed  he  is.  We’ll  hope  so.  How,  zoophytes,  for  another 
turn  with  you  ! ” 

To  tell  the  truth,  however,  Tom  is  looking  for  more  than 
zoophytes,  and  has  been  doing  so  at  every  dead  low  tide  since 
he  was  wrecked.  He  has  heard  nothing  yet  of  his  belt.  The 
notes  have  not  been  presented  at  the  London  bank ; nobody  in 
the  village  has  been  spending  more  money  than  usual;  for 
conning  Tom  has  contrived  already  to  know  how  many  pints 
of  ale  every  man  of  whom  he  has  the  least  doubt  has  drunk. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  belt  may  have  been  torn  off  in  the 
life  struggle ; it  may  have  been  for  a moment  in  Grace’s  hands, 

I and  then  have  been  swept  back  into  the  sea.  What  more 
* M 


162 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


likely  ? And  what  more  likely,  in  that  case,  that,  sinking  by 
its  weight,  it  is  wedged  away  in  some  cranny  of  the  rocks  ? So 
spring-tide  after  spring- tide  Tom  searches,  and  all  the  more 
carefully  because  others  are  searching  too,  for  waifs  and  strays 
from  the  wreck.  Sad  relics  of  mortality  he  finds  at  times,  as 
others  do  : once,  even,  a dressing-case,  full  of  rings  and  pins 
and  chains,  which  belonged,  he  fancied,  to  a gay  young  bride 
with  whom  he  had  waltzed  many  a time  on  deck,  as  they  slipped 
along  before  the  soft  trade-wind  : but  no  belt.  He  sent  the 
dressing-case  to  the  Lloyd’s  underwriters,  and  searched  on  : but 
in  vain.  Neither  could  he  find  that  any  one  else  had  forestalled 
him  ; and  that  very  afternoon,  sulky  and  disheartened,  he  deter- 
mined to  waste  no  more  time  about  the  matter,  and  strode  home, 
vowing  signal  vengeance  against  the  thief,  if  he  caught  him. 

“ And  I will  catch  him  ! These  west-country  yokels,  to  fancy 
that  they  can  do  Tom  Thurnall ! It’s  adding  insult  to  injury, 
as  Sam  Weller’s  parrot  has  it.” 

Now  his  shortest  way  home  lay  across  the  shore,  and  then 
along  the  beach,  and  up  the  steps  by  the  little  waterfall,  past 
Mrs.  Harvey’s  door ; and  at  that  door  sat  Grace,  sewing  in  the 
sun.  She  looked  up  and  bowed  as  he  passed,  smiling  modestly, 
$nd  little  dreaming  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind ; and  when 
a very  lovely  girl  smiled  and  bowed  to  Tom,  he  must  needs  do 
the  same  to  her  : whereon  she  added,— 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  Sir  : have  you  heard  anything  of  the 
money  you  lost  ? I — we — have  been  so  ashamed  to  think  of 
such  a thing  happening  here.” 

Tom’s  evil  spirit  was  roused. 

“ Have  you  heard  anything  of  it,  Miss  Harvey  ? Lor  you 
seem  to  me  the  only  person  in  the  place  who  knows  anything 
about  the  matter.” 

“I,  Sir?”  cried  Grace,  fixing  her  great  startled  eyes  full 
on  him. 

“ Why,  Ma’am,”  said  Tom,  with  a courtly  smile,  “you  may 
possibly  recollect,  if  you  will  so  far  tax  your  memory,  that  you 
had  it  in  your  hands  at  least  a moment,  when  you  did  me  the 
kindness  to  save  my  life ; and  as  you  were  kind  enough  to 
inform  me  that  I should  recover  it  when  I was  worthy  of  it, 
I suppose  I have  not  yet  risen  in  your  eyes  to  the  required 
state  of  conversion  and  regeneration.”  And  swinging  impa- 
tiently away,  he  walked  on,  really  afraid  lest  he  should  say 
something  rude. 

Grace  half  called  after  him,  and  then  suddenly  checking  her- 
self, rushed  in  to  her  mother  with  a wild  and  pale  face. 

“ What  is  this  Mr.  Thurnall  has  been  saying  to  me  about  his 
belt  and  money  which  he  lost  ? ” 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


163 


“ About  what  ? Has  he  been  rude  to  you,  the  bad  man  ? ” 
cried  Mrs.  Harvey,  dropping  the  pie-dish  in  some  confusion, 
and  taking  a long  while  to  pick  up  the  pieces. 

“About  the  belt — the  money  which  he  lost ! Why  don’t  you 
speak,  mother?” 

“ Belt — money  ? Ah,  I recollect  now.  He  has  lost  some 
money,  he  says.” 

“ Of  course  he  has.” 

“How  should  you  know  anything?  I recollect  there  was 
some  talk  of  it,  though.  But  what  matter  what  he  says  ? He 
was  quite  passed  away,  I’ll  swear,  when  they  carried  him  up.” 

“ But,  mother  ! mother ! he  says  that  I know  about  it ; that 
I had  it  in  my  hands  ! ” 

“ You  ? Oh  the  wicked  wretch,  the  false,  ungrateful,  slan- 
derous child  of  wrath,  with  adder’s  poison  under  his  lips  ! Ho, 
my  child  ! Though  we’re  poor,  we’re  honest ! Let  him  slander 
us,  rob  us,  of  our  good  name,  send  us  to  prison,  if  he  will — he 
cannot  rob  us  of  our  souls.  We’ll  be  silent ; we’ll  turn  the  other 
cheek,  and  commit  our  cause  to  One  above  who  pleads  for  the 
orphan  and  the  widow.  We  will  not  strive  nor  cry,  my  child. 
Oh,  no!”  And  Mrs.  Harvey  began  fussing  over  the  smashed 
pie-dish. 

“ I shall  not  strive  nor  cry,  mother,”  said  Grace,  who  had 
recovered  her  usual  calm  : “ but  he  must  have  some  cause  for 
these  strange  words.  Do  you  recollect  seeing  me  with  the  belt  ?” 

“ Belt,  what’s  a belt  ? I know  nothing  about  belts.  I tell 
you  he’s  a villain,  and  a slanderer.  Oh,  that  it  should  have 
come  to  this,  to  have  my  child’s  fair  fame  blasted  by  a 'wretch 
that  comes  nobody  knows  where  from,  and  has  been  doing 
nobody  knows  what,  for  aught  I know  !” 

“ Mother,  mother  ! we  know  no  harm  of  him.  If  he  is  mis- 
taken, God  forgive  him  ! ” 

“If  he  is  mistaken?”  went  on  Mrs.  Harvey,  still  over  the 
pie-dish : but  Grace  gave  her  no  answer.  She  was  deep  in 
thought.  She  recollected  now,  that  as  she  had  gone  up  the  path 
from  the  cove  on  that  eventful  morning,  she  had  seen  Willis  and 
Thurnall  whispering  earnestly  together ; and  she  recollected  now, 
for  the  first  time,  that  there  had  been  a certain  sadness  and  per- 
plexity, almost  reserve,  about  Willis  ever  since.  Good  heavens  I 
could  he  suspect  her  too  ? She  would  find  out  that  at  least ; 
and  no  sooner  had  her  mother  fussed  away,  talking  angrily  to 
herself,  into  the  back  kitchen,  than  Grace  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  shawl,  and  went  forth  to  find  the  Captain. 

In  an  hour  she  returned.  Her  lips  were  firm  set,  her  cheeks 
pale,  her  eyes  red  with  weeping.  She  said  nothing  to  her  mother, 
who  for  her  part  did  not  seem  inclined  to  allude  again  to  the  matter. 

m 2 


164 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


44  Where  have  you  "been,  child  ? You  look  quite  poorly,  and 
your  eyes  red.” 

44  The  wind  is  very  cold,  mother,”  said  she,  and  went  into  her 
room.  Her  mother  looked  sharply  after  her,  and  muttered  to  herself. 

Grace  went  in,  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

4 4 What  a coldness  this  is  at  my  heart!”  she  said  aloud  to 
herself,  trying  to  smile ; but  she  could  not : and  she  sat  on  the 
bedside,  without  taking  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  her  hands 
hanging  listlessly  by  her  side,  her  head  drooping  on  her  bosom, 
till  her  mother  called  her  to  tea : then  she  was  forced  to  rouse 
herself,  and  went  out,  composed,  but  utterly  wretched. 

Tom  walked  up  homeward,  very  ill  at  ease.  He  had  played, 
to  use  his  nomenclature,  two  trump  cards  running,  and  was  by 
no  means  satisfied  that  he  had  played  them  well.  He  had  no 
right,  certainly,  to  be  satisfied  with  either  move ; for  both  had 
been  made  in  a somewhat  evil  spirit,  and  certainly  for  no  very 
disinterested  end. 

That  was  a view  of  the  matter,  however,  which  never  entered 
his  mind ; there  was  only  that  general  dissatisfaction  with  himself 
which  is,  though  men  try  hard  to  deny  the  fact,  none  other  than 
the  supernatural  sting  of  conscience.  He  tried  44  to  lay  to  his 
soul  the  flattering  unction”  that  he  might,  after  all,  be  of  use  to 
Mrs.  Vavasour,  by  using  his  power  over  her  husband  : but  he 
knew  in  his  secret  heart  that  any  move  of  his  in  that  direction 
was  likely  only  to  make  matters  worse ; that  to-day’s  explosion 
might  only  have  sent  home  the  hapless  Vavasour  in  a more 
irritable  temper  than  ever.  And  thinking  over  many  things, 
backward  and  forward,  he  saw  his  own  way  so  little,  that  he 
actually  condescended  to  go  and  44  pump”  Frank  Headley.  So 
he  termed  it : but,  after  all,  it  was  only  like  asking  advice  of  a 
good  man,  because  he  did  not  feel  himself  quite  good  enough  to 
advise  himself. 

The  Curate  was  preparing  to  sally  forth,  after  his  frugal  dinner. 
The  morning  he  spent  at  the  schools,  or  in  parish  secularities ; 
the  afternoon,  till  dusk,  was  devoted  to  visiting  the  poor ; the 
night,  not  to  sleep,  but  to  reading  and  sermon  writing.  Thus, 
by  sitting  up  till  two  in  the  morning,  and  rising  again  at  six  for 
his  private  devotions,  before  walking  a mile  and  a half  up  to 
church  for  the  morning  service,  Frank  Headley  burnt  the  candle 
of  life  at  both  ends  very  effectually,  and  showed  that  he  did  so 
by  his  pale  cheeks  and  red  eyes. 

44  Ah  ! ” said  Tom,  as  he  entered.  44  As  usual : poor  Hature 
is  being  robbed  and  murdered  by  rich  Grace.” 

44  What  do  you  mean  now  ? ” asked  Frank,  smiling,  for  he  had 
become  accustomed  enough  to  Tom’s  quaint  parables,  though  he 
had  to  scold  him  often  enough  for  their  irreverence. 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


165 


44  Nature  says,  4 after  dinner  sit  awhile  ; ' and  even  the  dumb 
animals  hear  her  voice,  and  lie  by  for  a siesta  when  their  stomachs 
are  full.  Grace  says,  4 Jump  up  and  rush  out  the  moment  you 
have  swallowed  your  food ; and  if  you  get  an  indigestion,  abuse 
poor  Nature  for  it ; and  lay  the  blame  on  Adam's  fall.'  ” 

44  You  are  irreverent,  my  good  Sir,  as  usual ; but  you  are 
unjust  also  this  time." 

44  How  then  ? ” 

44  Unjust  to  Grace,  as  you  phrase  it,"  answered  Frank,  with  a 
quaint  sad  smile.  44 1 assure  you#on  my  honour,  that  Grace  has 
nothing  whatsoever  to  do  with  my  4 rushing  out 9 just  now,  but 
simply  the  desire  to  do  my  good  works  that  they  may  be  seen  of 
men.  I hate  going  out.  I should  like  to  sit  and  read  the 
whole  afternoon  : but  I am  afraid  lest  the  dissenters  should  say, 

4 He  has  not  been  to  see  so-and-so  for  the  last  three  days ; 9 so 
off  I go,  and  no  credit  to  me." 

Why  had  Frank  dared,  upon  a month's  acquaintance,  to  lay 
bare  his  own  heart  thus  to  a man  of  no  creed  at  all  ? Because, 
I suppose,  amid  all  differences,  he  had  found  one  point  of 
likeness  between  himself  and  Thurnall ; he  had  found  that  Tom 
at  heart  was  a truly  genuine  man,  sincere  and  faithful  to  his 
own  scheme  of  the  universe. 

How  that  man,  through  all  his  eventful  life,  had  been 
enabled  to 

44  Bate  not  a jot  of  heart  or  hope, 

But  steer  right  onward,” 

was  a problem  which  Frank  longed  curiously,  and  yet  fearfully 
withal,  to  solve.  There  were  many  qualities  in  him  which 
Frank  could  not  but  admire,  and  long  to  imitate ; and,  44  Whence 
had  they  come  ? " was  another  problem  at  which  he  looked, 
trembling  as  many  a new  thought  crossed  him.  He  longed, 
too,  to  learn  from  Tom  somewhat  at  least  of  that  savoir  faire, 
that  power  of  44  becoming  all  things  to  all  men,"  which  St.  Paul 
had ; and  for  want  of  which  Frank  had  failed.  He  saw,  too, 
with  surprise,  that  Tom  had  gained  in  one  month  more  real 
insight  into  the  characters  of  his  parishioners  than  he  had  done 
in  twelve  ; and  besides  all,  there  was  the  craving  of  the  lonely 
heart  for  human  confidence  and  friendship.  So  it  befell  that 
Frank  spoke  out  his  inmost  thought  that  day,  and  thought  no 
shame  ; and  it  befell  also,  that  Thurnall,  when  he  heard  it,  said 
in  his  heart — 

44  What  a noble,  honest  fellow  you  are,  when  you — " 

But  he  answered  enigmatically. 

44  Oh,  I quite  agree  with  you  that  Grace  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  I only  referred  it  to  that  source  because  I thought  you 
would  do  so." 


166 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


“You  ought  to  he  ashamed  of  your  dishonesty,  then.* 

“ I know  it ; but  my  view  of  the  case  is,  that  you  rush  out 
after  dinner  for  the  very  same  reason  that  the  Yankee  store- 
keeper does — from — You’ll  forgive  me  if  I say  it  ? ” 

“ Of  course.  You  cannot  speak  too  plainly  to  me.” 

“ Conceit ; the  Yankee  fancies  himself  such  an  important 
person,  that  the  commercial  world  will  stand  still  unless  he  flies 
hack  to  its  help  after  ten  minutes’  gobbling,  with  his  mouth  full 
of  pork  and  pickled  peaches.  And  you  fancy  yourself  so  im- 
portant in  your  line,  that  the  spiritual  world  will  stand  still 
unless  you  bolt  back  to  help  it  in  like  wise.  Substitute  a 
half-cooked  mutton  chop  for  the  pork,  and  the  cases  are  exact 
parallels.” 

“ Your  parallel  does  not  hold  good,  Doctor.  The  Yankee 
goes  back  to  his  store  to  earn  money  for  himself,  and  not  to  keep 
commerce  alive.” 

“ While  you  go  for  utterly  disinterested  motives. — I see.” 

“ Do  you?  ” said  Frank.  “If  you  think  that  I fancy  myself 
a better  man  than  the  Yankee,  you  mistake  me : but  at  least 
you  will  confess  that  I am  not  working  for  money.” 

“No;  you  have  your  notions  of  reward,  and  he  has  his.  He 
wants  to  be  paid  by  material  dollars,  payable  next  month ; you 
by  spiritual  dollars,  payable  when  you  die.  I don’t  see  the  great 
difference.” 

“ Only  the  slight  difference  between  what  is  material  and 
what  is  spiritual.” 

“ They  seem  to  me,  from  all  I can  hear  in  pulpits,  to  be  only 
two  different  sorts  of  pleasant  things,  and  to  be  sought  after, 
hoth  alike,  simply  because  they  are  pleasant.  Self-interest,  if 
you  will  forgive  me,  seems  to  me  the  spring  of  both  : only,  to 
do  you  justice,  you  are  a farther-sighted  and  more  prudent  man 
than  the  Yankee  store-keeper ; and  having  more  exquisitely 
developed  notions  of  what  your  true  self-interest  is,  are  content 
to  wait  a little  longer  than  he.” 

“You  stab  with  a jest,  Thurnall.  You  little  know  how  your 
words  hit  home.” 

“Well,  then,  to  turn  from  a matter  of  which  I know  nothing 
— I must  keep  you  in,  and  give  you  parish  business  to  do  at 
home.  I am  come  to  consult  you  as  my  spiritual  pastor  and 
master.” 

Frank  looked  a little  astonished. 

“ Don’t  be  alarmed.  I am  not  going  to  confess  my  own 
sins — only  other  people’s.” 

“ Pray  don’t,  then.  I know  far  more  of  them  already  than  I 
can  cure.  I am  worn  out  with  the  daily  discovery  of  fresh  evil 
wherever  I go.” 


THE  RECOGNITION.  167 

“ Then  why  not  comfort  yourself  by  trying  to  find  a little 
fresh  good  wherever  you  go  V9 
Frank  sighed. 

“ Perhaps,  though,  you  don’t  care  for  any  sort  of  good  except 
your  own  sort  of  good.  You  are  fastidious.  Well,  you  have 
your  excuses.  But  you  can  understand  a poor  fellow  like  me, 
who  has  been  dragged  through  the  slums  and  sewers  of  this 
wicked  world  for  fifteen  years  and  more,  being  very  well  content 
with  any  sort  of  good  which  I can  light  on,  and  not  particular  as 
to  either  quantity  or  quality.” 

“ Perhaps  yours  is  the  healthier  state  of  mind ; if  you  can 
only  find  the  said  good.  The  vulturine  nose,  which  smells 
nothing  but  corruption,  is  no  credit  to  its  possessor.  And  it 
would  be  pleasant,  at  least,  to  find  good  in  every  man.” 

“ One  can’t  do  that  in  one’s  study.  Mixing  with  them  is  the 
only  plan.  No  doubt  they’re  inconsistent  enough.  The  more 
you  see  of  them,  the  less  you  trust  them ; and  yet  the  more  you 
see  of  them,  the  more  you  like  them.  Can  you  solve  that 
paradox  from  your  books  ?” 

“ I will  try,”  said  Frank.  “ I generally  have  more  than  one 
to  think  over  when  you  go.  But,  surely,  there  are  men  so  fallen 
that  they  are  utterly  insensible  to  good.” 

“ Very  likely.  There’s  no  saying  in  this  world  what  may  not 
be.  Only  I never  saw  one.  I’ll  tell  you  a story;  you  may 
apply  it  as  you  like.  When  I was  on  the  Texan  expedition, 
and  raw  to  soldiering  and  camping,  we  had  to  sleep  in  low 
ground,  and  suffered  terribly  from  a miasma.  Deadly  cold  it 
was,  when  it  came ; and  the  man  who  once  got  chilled  through 
with  it,  just  died.  I was  lying  on  the  bare  ground  one  night, 
and  chilly  enough  I was — for  I was  short  of  clothes,  and  had 
lost  my  buffalo  robe — but  fell  asleep  : and  on  waking  the  next 
morning,  I found  myself  covered  up  in  my  comrade’s  blankets, 
even  to  his  coat,  while  he  was  sitting  shivering  in  his  shirt 
sleeves.  The  cold  fog  had  come  down  in  the  night,  and  the  man 
had  stripped  himself,  and  sat  all  night  with  death  staring  him  in 
the  face,  to  save  my  life.  And  all  the  reason  he  gave  was,  that 
if  one  of  us  must  die,  it  was  better  the  older  should  go  first,  and 
not  a youngster  like  me.  And,”  said  Tom,  lowering  his  voice, 

4 4 that  man  was  a murderer  !” 

“A  murderer  !” 

“ Yes ; a drunken,  gambling,  cut-throat  rowdy  as  ever  grew 
ripe  for  the  gallows.  Now,  will  you  tell  me  that  there  was 
nothing  in  that  man  but  what  the  devil  put  there?” 

Frank  sat  meditating  awhile  on  this  strange  story,  which  is 
moreover  a true  one ; and  then  looked  up  with  something  like 
tears  in  iris  eyes. 


1G8 


THE  RECOGNITION, 


“ And  lie  did  not  die  V’ 

u Hot  lie  ! I saw  him  die  afterwards — shot  through  the 
heart,  without  time  even  to  cry  out.  Eut  I have  not  forgotten 
what  he  did  for  me  that  night ; and  I’ll  tell  you  what,  Sir  ! I 
do  not  "believe  that  God  has  forgotten  it  either.” 

Frank  was  silent  for  a few  moments,  and  then  Tom  changed 
the  subject. 

“ I want  to  know  what  you  can  tell  me  about  this  Mr. 
Vavasour.” 

“ Hardly  anything,  I am  sorry  to  say.  I was  at  his  house  at 
tea,  two  or  three  times,  when  I first  came ; and  I had  very 
agreeable  evenings,  and  talks  on  art  and  poetry  : but  I believe  I 
offended  him  by  hinting  that  he  ought  to  come  to  church,  which 
he  never  does,  and  since  then  our  acquaintance  has  all  but 
ceased.  I suppose  you  will  say,  as  usual,  that  I played  my 
cards  badly  there  also.” 

“ Hot  at  all !”  said  Tom,  who  was  disposed  to  take  any  one’s 
part  against  Elsley.  “If  a clergyman  has  not  a right  to  tell  a 
man  that,  I don’t  see  what  right  he  has  of  any  kind.  Only,” 
added  he,  with  one  of  his  quaint  smiles,  “ the  clergyman,  if  he 
compels  a man  to  deal  at  his  store,  is  bound  to  furnish  him  with 
the  articles  which  he  wants.” 

“Which  he  needs,  or  which  he  likes?  For  ‘wanting’  has 
both  those  meanings.” 

“ With  something  that  he  finds  by  experience  does  him  good  ; 
and  so  learns  to  like  it,  because  he  knows  that  he  needs  it,  as 
my  patients  do  my  physic.” 

“ I wish  my  patients  would  do  so  by  mine  : but,  unfortunately, 
half  of  them  seem  to  me  not  to  know  what  their  disease  is,  and 
the  other  half  do  not  think  they  are  diseased  at  all.” 

“Well,”  said  Tom  drily,  “perhaps  some  of  them  are  more 
right  than  you  fancy.  Every  man  knows  his  own  business 
best.” 

“If  it  were  so,  they  would  go  about  it  somewhat  differently 
from  what  most  of  the  poor  creatures  do.” 

“Do  you  think  so  ? I fancy  myself  that  not  one  of  them 
does  a wrong  thing,  but  what  he  knows  it  to  be  wrong  just  as 
well  as  you  do,  and  is  much  more  ashamed  and  frightened 
about  it  already,  than  you  can  ever  make  him  by  preaching  at 
him.” 

“ Do  you  ?” 

“ I do.  I judge  of  others  by  myself.” 

“ Then  would  you  have  a clergyman  never  warn  his  people  of 
their  sins  ?” 

“ If  I were  he,  I’d  much  sooner  take  the  sins  for  granted,  and 
say  to  them,  4 How,  my  friends,  I know  you  are  all,  ninety-nine 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


169 


out  of  the  hundred  of  you,  not  such  bad  fellows  at  bottom,  and 
would  all  like  to  be  good,  if  you  only  knew  how  ; so  I’ll  tell  you 
as  far  as  I know,  though  I don’t  know  much  about  the  matter. 
For  the  truth  is,  you  must  have  a hundred  troubles  every  day 
which  I never  felt  in  my  life  ; and  it  must  be  a very  hard 
thing  to  keep  body  and  soul  together,  and  to  get  a little  pleasure 
on  this  side  the  grave  without  making  blackguards  of  your- 
selves. Therefore  I don’t  pretend  to  set  myself  up  as  a better 
or  a wiser  man  than  you  at  all : but  I do  know  a thing  or 
two  which  I fancy  may  be  useful  to  you.  You  can  but  try  it. 
So  come  up,  if  you  like,  any  of  you,  and  talk  matters  over 
with  me  as  between  gentleman  and  gentleman.  I shall  keep 
your  secret,  of  course ; and  if  you  find  I can’t  cure  your  com- 
plaint, why,  you  can  but  go  away  and  try  elsewhere.,  ” 

“ And  so  the  doctor’s  model  sermon  ends  in  proposing  private 
confession  ! ” 

“ Of  course.  The  thing  itself  which  will  do  them  good,  with- 
out the  red  rag  of  an  official  name,  which  sends  them  cackling  off 
like  frightened  turkeys. — Such  private  confession  as  is  going  on 
between  you  and  me  now.  Here  am  I confessing  to  you  all  my 
unorthodoxy.” 

“ And  I my  ignorance,”  said  Frank ; “ for  I really  believe  you 
know  more  about  the  matter  than  I do.” 

“ Hot  at  all.  I may  be  all  wrong.  But  the  fault  of  your  cloth 
seems  to  me  to  be  that  they  apply  their  medicines  without  deign- 
ing, most  of  them,  to  take  the  least  diagnosis  of  the  case.  How 
could  I cure  a man  without  first  examining  what  was  the  matter 
with  him  ? ” 

“ So  say  the  old  casuists,  of  whom  I have  read  enough — some 
would  say  too  much ; but  they  do  not  satisfy  me.  They  deal  with 
actions,  and  motives,  and  so  forth ; but  they  do  not  go  down  to 
the  one  root  of  wrong  which  is  the  same  in  every  man.” 

“ You  are  getting  beyond  me  : but  why  do  you  not  apply  a 
little  of  the  worldly  wisdom  which  these  same  casuists  taught 
you  ? ” 

“ To  tell  you  the  truth,  I have  tried  in  past  years,  and  found 
that  the  medicine  would  not  act.” 

“ Humph  ! Well,  that  would  depend,  again,  on  the  previous 
diagnosis  of  human  nature  being  correct ; and  those  old  monks, 

I should  say,  would  know  about  as  much  of  human  nature  as  so 
many  daws  in  a steeple.  Still,  you  wouldn’t  say  that  what  was 
the  matter  with  old  Heale  was  the  matter  also  with  Vavasour?” 

“ I believe  from  my  heart  that  it  is.” 

“ Humph  ! Then  you  know  the  symptoms  of  his  complaint  f ” 

4 4 1 know  that  he  never  comes  to  church.” 

“ Nothing  more  ? I am  really  speaking  in  confidence.  You 


170 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


surely  have  heard  of  disagreements  between  him  and  Mrs. 
Vavasour  V’ 

“ Never,  I assure  you;  you  shock  me.” 

“ I am  exceedingly  sorry,  then,  that  I said  a word  about  it : 
but  the  whole  parish  talks  of  it,”  answered  Tom,  who  was  sur- 
prised at  this  fresh  proof  of  the  little  confidence  which  Aberalva 
put  in  their  parson. 

“ Ah. ! ” said  Frank  sadly,  “ I am  the  last  person  in  the  parish 
to  hear  any  news  : but  this  is  very  distressing.” 

“ Very,  to  me.  My  honour,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  as  a medical 
man,  is  concerned  in  the  matter ; for  she  is  growing  quite  ill  from 
unhappiness,  and  I cannot  cure  her ; so  I come  to  you,  as  soul- 
doctor,  to  do  what  I,  the  body-doctor,  cannot.” 

Frank  sat  pondering  for  a minute,  and  then — • 

“ You  set  me  on  a task  for  which  I am  as  little  fit  as  any  man, 
by  your  own  showing.  What  do  I know  of  disagreements 
between  man  and  wife  ? And  one  has  a delicacy  about  offering 
her  comfort.  She  must  bestow  her  confidence  on  me  before  I can 
use  it : while  he — ” 

“ While  he,  as  the  cause  of  the  disease,  is  what  you  ought  to 
treat ; and  not  her  unhappiness,  which  is  only  a symptom  of  it.” 
“ Spoken  like  a wise  doctor : but  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Thurnall, 
I have  no  influence  over  Mr.  Vavasour,  and  see  no  means  of  get- 
ting any.  If  he  recognised  my  authority,  as  his  parish  priest, 
then  I should  see  my  way.  Let  him  be  as  bad  as  he  might,  I 
should  have  a fixed  point  from  which  to  work  ; but  with  his  free- 
thinking  notions,  I know  well — one  can  judge  it  too  easily  from 
his  poems — he  would  look  on  me  as  a pedant  assuming  a spiritual 
tyranny  to  which  I have  no  claim.” 

Tom  sat  awhile  nursing  his  knee,  and  then — 

“ If  you  saw  a man  fallen  into  the  water,  what  do  you  think 
would  be  the  shortest  way  to  prove  to  him  that  you  had  authority 
from  heaven  to  pull  him  out  ? Do  you  give  it  up  ? Pulling  him 
out,  would  it  not  be,  without  more  ado  ] ” 

“ I should  be  happy  enough  to  pull  poor  Vavasour  out,  if  he 
would  let  me.  But  till  he  believes  that  I ban  do  it,  how  can  I 
even  begin  V’ 

“ How  can  you  expect  him  to  believe,  if  he  has  no  proof  1 ” 

“ There  are  proofs  enough  in  the  Bible  and  elsewhere,  if  he  will 
but  accept  them.  If  he  refuses  to  examine  into  the  credentials, 
the  fault  is  his,  not  mine.  I really  do  not  wish  to  be  hard  : but 
would  not  you  do  the  same,  if  any  one  refused  to  employ  you, 
because  be  chose  to  deny  that  you  were  a legally  qualified 
practitioner  1 ” 

“ Not  so  badly  put ; but  what  should  I do  in  that  case  ? Go 
on  quietly  curing  his  neighbours,  till  he  began  to  alter  his  mind 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


171 

as  to  my  qualifications,  and  came  in  to  be  cured  himself.  But 
here’s  this  difference  between  you  and  me.  I am  not  bound  to 
attend  to  any  one  who  don’t  send  for  me ; while  you  think  that 
you  are,  and  carry  the  notion  a little  too  far,  for  I expect  you  to 
kill  yourself  by  it  some  day.” 

“ W ell  V9  said  Frank,  with  something  of  that  lazy  Oxford  tone, 
which  is  intended  to  save  the  speaker  the  trouble  of  giving  his 
arguments,  when  he  has  already  made  up  his  mind,  or  thinks 
that  he  has  so  done. 

“Well,  if  I thought  myself  bound  to  doctor  the  man,  willy- 
nilly,  as  you  do,  I would  certainly  go  to  him,  and  show  him,  at 
least,  that  I understood  his  complaint.  That  would  be  the  first 
step  towards  his  letting  me  cure  him.  How  else  on  earth  do 
you  fancy  that  Paul  cured  those  Corinthians  about  whom  I have 
been  reading  lately  h ” 

“ Are  you,  too,  going  to  quote  Scripture  against  me  1 I am 
glad  to  find  that  your  studies  extend  to  St.  Paul.” 

“ To  tell  you  the  truth,  your  sermon  last  Sunday  puzzled  me. 
I could  not  comprehend  (on  your  showing)  how  Paul  got  that 
wonderful  influence  over  those  pagans  which  he  evidently  had; 
and  as  how  to  get  influence  is  a very  favourite  study  of  mine, 
I borrowed  the  book  when  I went  home,  and  read  for  myself ; 
and  the  matter  at  last  seemed  clear  enough,  on  Paul’s  own 
showing.” 

“ I don’t  doubt  that : but  I suspect  your  interpretation  of  the 
fact  and  mine  would  not  agree.” 

“ Mine  is  simple  enough.  He  says  that  what  proved  him  to 
be  an  apostle  was  his  power.  He  is  continually  appealing  to  his 
power ; and  what  can  he  mean  by  that,  but  that  he  could  do, 
and  had  done,  what  he  professed  to  do  ? He  promised  to  make 
those  poor  heathen  rascals  of  Greeks  better,  and  wiser,  and 
happier  men ; and,  I suppose,  he  made  them  so ; and  then  there 
was  no  doubt  of  his  commission,  or  his  authority,  or  anything  else. 
He  says  himself  he  did  not  require  any  credentials,  for  they 
were  his  credentials,  read  and  known  of  every  one  ; he  had 
made  good  men  of  them  out  of  bad  ones,  and  that  was  proof 
enough  whose  apostle  he  was.” 

“ Well,”  said  Frank  half  .sadly,  “ I might  say  a great  deal,  of 
course,  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  but  I prefer  hearing 
what  you  laymen  think  about  it  all.” 

“ Will  you  be  angry  if  I tell  you  honestly  'l  ” 

“ Did  you  ever  find  me  angry  at  anything  you  said  V 1 
“ FTo.  I will  do  you  the  justice  to  say  jfiat.  Well,  what  we 
laymen  say  is  this.  If  the  parsons  have  the  authority  of  which 
they  boast,  why  don’t  they  use  it  h If  they  have  commission  to 
make  bad  people  good,  they  must  have  power  too : for  He  whose 


172 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


commission  they  claim,  is  not  likely,  I should  suppose,  to  set 
a man  to  do  what  he  cannot  do.” 

“ And  we  can  do  it,  if  people  would  hut  submit  to  us.  It  all 
comes  round  again  to  the  same  point.” 

“ So  it  does.  How  to  get  them  to  listen.  I tried  to  find  out 
how  Paul  achieved  that  first  step ; and  when  I looked  he  told 
me  plainly  enough.  By  becoming  all  things  to  all  men ; by 
showing  these  people  that  he  understood  them,  and  knew  what 
was  the  matter  with  them.  Now  do  you  go  and  do  likewise 
by  Vavasour,  and  then  exercise  your  authority  like  a practical 
man.  If  you  have  power  to  bind  and  loose,  as  you  told  us 
last  Sunday,  bind  that  fellow’s  ungovernable  temper,  and  loose 
him  from  the  real  slavery  which  he  is  in  to  his  miserable  con- 
ceit and  self-indulgence  ! and  then  if  he  does  not  believe  in 
your  ‘ sacerdotal  power,’  he  is  even  a greater  fool  than  I take 
him  for.” 

“ Honestly,  I will  try : God  help  me ! ” added  Prank  in  a 
lower  voice;  “but  as  for  quarrels  between  man  and  wife,  as  I 
told  you,  no  one  understands  them  less  than  I.” 

“ Then  marry  a wife  yourself  and  quarrel  a little  with  her  for 
experiment,  and  then  you’ll  know  all  about  it.” 

Prank  laughed  in  spite  of  himself. 

“ Thank  you.  No  man  is  less  likely  to  try  that  experiment 
than  I.” 

“ Hum ! ” 

“ I have  quite  enough  as  a bachelor  to  distract  me  from  my 
w^ork,  without  adding  to  them  those  of  a wife  and  family,  and 
those  little  home  lessons  in  the  frailty  of  human  nature,  in  which 
you  advise  me  to  copy  Mr.  Vavasour.” 

“ And  so,”  said  Tom,  “ having  to  doctor  human  beings,  nine- 
teen-twentieths of  whom  are  married ; and  being  aware  that 
three  parts  of  the  miseries  of  human  life  come  either  from 
wanting  to  be  married,  or  from  married  cares  and  troubles — you 
think  that  you  will  improve  your  chance  of  doctoring  your  flock 
rightly  by  avoiding  carefully  the  least  practical  acquaintance 
with  the  chief  cause  of  their  disease.  Philosophical  and  logical, 
truly  ! ” 

“You  seem  to  have  acquired  a little  knowledge  of  men  and 
women,  my  good  friend,  without  encumbering  yourself  with  a 
wife  and  children.” 

“ Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  same  school  to  which  I went  1 ” 
asked  Thurnall,  with  a look  of  such  grave  meaning  that  Prank’s 
pure  spirit  shuddered  within  him.  “ And  I’ll  tell  you  this ; 
whenever  I see  a woman  nursing  her  baby,  or  a father  with  his 
child  upon  his  knees,  I say  to  myself — they  know  more,  at  this 
minute,  of  human  nature.,  as  of  the  great  law  of  6 C’est  l’amour, 


THE  RECOGNITION, 


173 


I’amour,  l’amour,  which  makes  the  world  go  round/  than  I am 
likely  to  do  for  many  a day.  Ill  tell  you  what,  Sir ! These 
simple  natural  ties,  which  are  common  to  us  and  the  dumb 
animals, — as  I live,  Sir,  they  are  the  divinest  things  I see  in  the 
world  ! I have  but  one,  and  that  is  love  to  my  poor  old  father ; 
that’s  all  the  religion  I have  as  yet : but  I tell  you,  it  alone  has 
kept  me  from  being  a ruffian  and  a blackguard.  And  111  tell 
you  more/’  said  Tom,  warming,  “of  all  diabolical  dodges  for 
preventing  the  parsons  from  seeing  who  they  are,  or  what  human 
beings  are,  or  what  their  work  in  the  world  is,  or  anything  else, 
the  neatest  is  that  celibacy  of  the  clergy.  I should  like  to  have 
you  with  me  in  Spanish  America,  or  in  France  either,  and  see 
what  you  thought  of  it  then.  How  it  ever  came  into  mortal 
brains  is  to  me  the  puzzle.  I’ve  often  fancied,  when  I’ve  watched 
those  priests — and  very  good  fellows,  too,  some  of  them  are — 
that  there  must  be  a devil  after  all  abroad  in  the  world,  as  you 
say ; for  no  human  insanity  could  ever  have  hit  upon  so  complete 
and  ’cute  a device  for  making  parsons  do  the  more  harm,  the 
more  good  they  try  to  do.  There,  I’ve  preached  you  a sermon, 
and  made  you  angry.” 

“ Hot  in  the  least : but  I must  go  now  and  see  some  sick.” 

“ Well,  go,  and  prosper ; only  recollect  that  the  said  sick  are 
men  and  women.” 

And  away  Tom  went,  thinking  to  himself : “Well,  that  is  a 
noble,  straightforward,  honest  fellow,  and  will  do  yet,  if  he’ll 
only  get  a wife.  He’s  not  one  of  those  asses  who  have  made  up 
their  minds  by  book  that  the  world  is  square,  and  won’t  believe 
it  to  be  round  for  any  ocular  demonstration.  He’ll  find  out  what 
shape  the  world  is  before  long,  and  behave  as  such,  and  act 
accordingly.” 

Little  did  Tom  think,  as  he  went  home  that  day  in  full-blown 
satisfaction  with  his  sermon  to  Frank,  of  the  misery  he  had 
caused,  and  was  going  to  cause  for  many  a day,  to  poor  Grace 
Harvey.  It  was  a rude  shock  to  her  to  find  herself  thus  sus- 
pected ; though  perhaps  it  was  one  which  she  needed.  She  had 
never,  since  one  first  trouble  ten  years  ago,  known  any  real  grief ; 
and  had  therefore  had  all  the  more  time  to  make  a luxury  of 
unreal  ones.  She  was  treated  by  the  simple  folk  around  her  as 
all  but  inspired ; and  being  possessed  of  real  powers  as  miraculous 
in  her  own  eyes  as  those  which  were  imputed  to  her  were  in 
theirs,  {for  what  are  real  spiritual  experiences  but  daily  miracles  ?) 
she  was  just  in  that  temper  of  mind  in  which  she  required,  as 
ballast,  all  her  real  goodness,  lest  the  moral  balance  should  topple 
headlong  after  the  intellectual,  and  the  downward  course  of 
vanity,  excitement,  deception,  blasphemous  assumptions  be 
entered  on.  Happy  for  her  that  she  was  in  Protestant  and 


174 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


common-sense  England,  and  in  a country  parish,  where  mesme- 
rism and  spirit-rapping  were  unknown.  Had  she  been  an 
American,  she  might  have  become  one  of  the  most  lucrative 
“ mediums  had  she  been  born  in  a Komish  country,  she  would 
have  probably  become  an  even  more  famous  personage.  There  is 
no  reason  why  she  should  not  have  equalled,  or  surpassed,  the 
ecstasies  of  St.  Theresa,  or  of  St.  ITiidegardis,  or  any  other 
sweet  dreamer  of  sweet  dreams  ; have  founded  a new  order  of 
charity,  have  enriched  the  clergy  of  a whole  province,  and  have 
died  in  seven  years,  maddened  by  alternate  paroxysms  of  self- 
conceit  and  revulsions  of  self-abasement.  Her  own  preachers 
and  class-leaders,  indeed  (so  do  extremes  meet),  would  not  have 
been  sorry  to  make  use  of  her  in  somewhat  the  same  manner, 
however  feebly  and  coarsely  : but  her  innate  self-respect  and 
modesty  had  preserved  her  from  the  snares  of  such  clumsy 
poachers ; and  more  than  one  good-looking  young  preacher  had 
fled  desperately  from  a station  where,  instead  of  making  a tool  of 
Grace  Harvey,  he  could  only  madden  his  own  foolish  heart  with 
love  for  her. 

So  Grace  had  reigned  upon  her  pretty  little  throne  of  not 
unbearable  sorrows,  till  a real  and  bitter  woe  came ; one  which 
could  not  be  hugged  and  cherished,  like  the  rest ; one  which  she 
tried  to  fling  from  her,  angrily,  scornfully,  and  found  to  her 
horror,  that,  instead  of  her  possessing  it,  it  possessed  her,  and 
coiled  itself  round  her  heart,  and  would  not  be  flung  away. 
She — she,  of  all  beings,  to  be  suspected  as  a thief,  and  by  the 
very  man  whose  life  she  had  saved  ! She  was  willing  enough  to 
confess  herself — and  confessed  herself  night  and  morning — a 
miserable  sinner,  and  her  heart  a cage  of  unclean  birds,  deceitful, 
and  desperately  wicked — except  in  that.  The  conscious  inno- 
cence flashed  up  in  pride  and  scorn,  in  thoughts,  even  when  she 
was  alone,  in  words,  of  which  she  would  not  have  believed 
herself  capable.  With  hot  brow  and  dry  eyes  she  paced  her 
little  chamber,  sat  down  on  the  bed,  staring  into  vacancy,  sprang 
up  and  paced  again  : but  she  went  into  no  trance — she  dare  not. 
The  grief  was  too  great;  she  felt  that,  if  she  once  gave  way 
enough  to  lose  her  self-possession,  she  should  go  mad.  And  the 
first,  and  perhaps  not  the  least  good  effect  of  that  fiery  trial  was, 
that  it  compelled  her  to  a stern  self-restraint,  to  which  her  will, 
weakened  by  mental  luxuriousness,  had  been  long  a stranger. 

But  a fiery  trial  it  was.  That  first  wild  (and  yet  not  unnatural) 
fancy,  that  heaven  had  given  Thurnall  to  her,  had  deepened  day 
by  day,  by  the  mare  indulgence  of  it.  But  she  never  dreamt  of 
him  as  her  husband  : only  as  a friendless  stranger  to  be  helped 
and  comforted.  And  that  he  was  worthy  of  help ; that  some 
great  future  was  in  store  for  him ; that  he  was  a chosen  vessel 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


175 


marked  out  for  glory,  she  had  persuaded  herself  utterly;  and 
the  persuasion  grew  in  her  day  by  day,  as  she  heard  more  and 
more  of  his  cleverness,  honesty,  and  kindliness,  mysterious  and, 
to  her,  miraculous  learning.  Therefore  she  did  not  make  haste  ; 
she  did  not  even  try  to  see  him,  or  to  speak  to  him ; a civil 
bow  in  passing  was  all  that  she  took  or  gave;  and  she  was 
content  with  that,  and  waited  till  the  time  came,  when  she  was 
destined  to  do  for  him — what  she  knew  not ; but  it  would  be 
done,  if  she  were  strong  enough.  So  she  set  herself  to  learn, 
and  read,  and  trained  her  mind  and  temper  more  earnestly  than 
ever,  and  waited  in  patience  for  God’s  good  time.  And  now, 
behold,  a black,  unfathomable  gulf  of  doubt  and  shame  had 
opened  between  them,  perhaps  for  ever.  And  a tumult  arose  in 
her  soul,  which  cannot  be,  perhaps  ought  not  to  be,  analysed  in 
words ; but  which  made  her  know  too  well,  by  her  own  crimson 
cheeks,  that  it  was  none  other  than  human  love  strong  as  death, 
and  jealousy  cruel  as  the  grave. 

At  last  long  and  agonizing  prayer  brought  gentler  thoughts, 
and  mere  physical  exhaustion  a calmer  mood.  How  wicked  she 
had  been ; how  rebellious  ! Why  not  forgive  him,  as  One  greater 
than  she  had  forgiven  ? It  was  ungrateful  of  him  : but  was  he 
not  human  ? Why  should  she  expect  his  heart  to  be  better  than 
hers?  Besides,  he  might  have  excuses  for  his  suspicion.  He 
might  be  the  best  judge,  being  a man,  and  such  a clever  one  too. 
Tes ; it  was  God’s  cross,  and  she  would  bear  it ; she  would  try 
and  forget  him.  Ho ; that  was  impossible ; she  must  hear  of 
him,  if  not  see  him,  day  by  day  : besides,  was  not  her  fate  linked 
up  with  his  ? And  yet  shut  out  from  him  by  that  dark  wall  of 
suspicion ! It  was  very  bitter.  But  she  could  pray  for  him ; 
she  would  pray  for  him  now.  Yes  ; it  was  God’s  cross,  and  she 
would  bear  it.  He  would  right  her  if  He  thought  fit ; and  if 
not,  what  matter  ? Was  she  not  born  to  sorrow  ? Should  she 
complain  if  another  drop,  and  that  the  bitterest  of  all,  was  added 
to  the  cup  1 

And  bear  her  cross  she  did,  about  with  her,  coming  in,  and 
going  out,  for  many  a weary  day.  There  was  no  change  in  her 
habits  or  demeanour ; she  was  never  listless  for  a moment  in  her 
school ; she  was  more  gay  and  amusing  than  ever,  when  she 
gathered  her  little  ones  around  her  for  a story  : but  still  there 
was  the  unseen  burden,  grinding  her  heart  slowly,  till  she  felt 
us  if  every  footstep  was  stained  with  a drop  of  her  heart’s  blood. 

. . . Wliy  not  ? It  would  be  the  sooner  over. 

Then,  at  times  came  that  strange  woman’s  pleasure  in  martyr- 
dom, the  secret  pride  of  suffering  unjustly  : but  even  that,  after 
a while,  she  cast  away  from  her,  as  a snare,  and  tried  to  believe 
that  she  deserved  all  her  sorrow — deserved  it,  that  is,  in  the  real 


176 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


honest  sense  of  the  word ; that  she  had  worked  it  out,  and 
earned  it,  and  brought  it  on  herself — how,  she  knew  not,  hut 
longed  and  strove  to  know.  USTo ; it  was  no  martyrdom.  She 
would  not  allow  herself  so  silly  a cloak  of  pride ; and  she  went 
daily  to  her  favourite  “ Book  of  Martyrs/’  to  contemplate  there 
the  stories  of  those  who,  really  innocent,  really  suffered  for  well- 
doing. And  out  of  that  hook  she  began  to  draw  a new  and  a 
strange  enjoyment,  for  she  soon  found  that  her  intense  imagina- 
tion enabled  her  to  re-enact  those  sad  and  glorious  stories  in  her 
own  person;  to  tremble,  agonize,  and  conquer  with  those  heroines 
who  had  been  for  years  her  highest  ideals — and  what  higher 
ones  could  she  have  ? And  many  a night,  after  extinguishing 
the  light,  and  closing  her  eyes,  she  would  be  motionless  for 
hours  on  her  little  bed,  not  to  sleep,  but  to  feel  with  Perpetua 
the  mid  bull’s  horns,  to  hang  with  St.  Maura  on  the  cross,  or 
lie  with  Julitta  oil  the  rack,  or  see  with  triumphant  smile,  by 
Anne  Askew’s  side,  the  fire  flare  up  around  her  at  the  Smithfield 
stake,  or  to  promise,  with  dying  Dorothea,  celestial  roses  to  the 
mocking  youth,  whose  face  too  often  took  the  form  of  Thurnall’s  ; 
till  every  nerve  quivered  responsive  to  her  fancy  in  agonies  of 
actual  pain,  which  died  away  at  last  into  heavy  slumber,  as  body 
and  mind  alike  gave  way  before  the  strain.  Sweet  fool ! she 
knew  not — how  could  she  know  ? — that  she  might  be  rearing  in 
herself  the  seeds  of  idiotcy  and  death  : but  who  that  applauds  a 
Bachel  or  a Eistori,  for  being  able  to  make  awhile  their  souls 
and  their  countenances  the  homes  of  the  darkest  passions,  can 
blame  her  for  enacting  in  herself,  and  for  herself  alone,  incidents 
in  which  the  highest  and  holiest  virtue  takes  shape  in  perfect 
tragedy  ? 

But  soon  another,  and  a yet  darker  cause  of  sorrow  arose  in 
her.  It  was  clear,  from  what  Willis  had  told  her,  that  she  had 
held  the  lost  belt  in  her  hand.  The  question  was,  how  had  she 
lost  it  ? 

Did  her  mother  know  anything  about  it  ? That  question  could 
not  but  arise  in  her  mind,  though  for  very  reverence  she  dared 
not  put  it  to  her  mother ; and  with  it  arose  the  recobection  of 
her  mother’s  strange  silence  about  the  matter.  Why  had  she  put 
away  the  subject,  carelessly,  and  yet  peevishly,  whenever  it  was 
mentioned  h Yes.  Why  h Did  her  mother  know  anything  ? 
Was  she — ? Grace  dared  not  pronounce  the  adjective,  even  in 
thought ; dashed  it  away  as  a temptation  of  the  devil ; dashed 
away,  too,  the  thought  which  had  forced  itself  on  her  too  often 
already,  that  her  mother  was  not  altogether  one  who  possessed 
the  single  eye ; that  in  spite  of  her  deep  religious  feeling,  her 
assurance  of  salvation,  her  fits  of  bitter  self-humiliation  and 
despondency,  there  was  an  incbnation  to  scheming  and  intrigue, 


THE  RECOGNITION. 


177 


ambition,  covetousness  ; that  the  secrets  which  she  gained  as 
class-leader  too,  were  too  often  (Grace  could  but  fear)  used  to  her 
own  advantage ; that  in  her  dealings  her  morality  was  not  above 
the  average  of  little  country  shop-keepers  ; that  she  w^as  apt  to 
have  two  prices ; to  keep  her  books  with  unnecessary  carelessness 
when  the  person  against  whom  the  account  stood  was  no  scholar. 
Grace  had  more  than  once  remonstrated  in  her  gentle  way  ; and 
had  been  silenced,  rather  than  satisfied,  by  her  mother’s  common- 
places as  to  the  right  of  “ making  those  who  could  pay,  pay  for 
those  who  could  not ;”  that  “ it  was  very  hard  to  get  a living, 
and  the  Lord  knew  her  temptations,”  and  “that  God  saw  no  sin 
in  His  elect,”  and  “ Christ’s  merits  were  infinite,”  and  “ Chris- 
tians always  had  been  a backsliding  generation  ;”  and  all  the 
other  common-places  by  which  such  people  drug  their  consciences 
to  a degree  which  is  utterly  incredible,  except  to  those  who  have 
seen  it  with  their  own  eyes,  and  heard  it  with  their  own  ears, 
from  childhood. 

Once,  too,  in  those  very  days,  some  little  meanness  on  her 
mother’s  part  brought  the  tears  into  Grace’s  eyes,  and  a gentle* 
rebuke  to  her  lips  : but  her  mother  bore  the  interference  less 
patiently  than  usual ; and  answered,  not  by  cant,  but  by  counter- 
reproach. “Was  she  the  person  to  accuse  a poor  widowed  mother,, 
struggling  to  leave  her  child  something  to  keep  her  out  of  the 
workhouse  h A mother  that  lived  for  her,  would  die  for  her,  sell 
her  soul  for  her,  perhaps — ” 

And  there  Mrs.  Harvey  stopped  short,  turned  pale,  and  burst 
into  such  an  agony  of  tears,  that  Grace,  terrified,  threw  her  arms 
round  her  neck,  and  entreated  forgiveness,  all  the  more  intensely 
on  account  of  those  thoughts  within  which  she  dared  not  reveal. 
So  the  storm  passed  over.  But  not  Grace’s  sadness.  Bor  she 
could  not  but  see,  with  her  clear  pure  spiritual  eye,  that  her 
mother  was  just  in  that  state  in  which  some  fearful  and  shame- 
ful fall  is  possible,  perhaps  wholesome.  “ She  would  sell  her 
soul  for  me  h What  if  she  have  sold  it,  and  stopped  short  just 
now,  because  she  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  me  that  love  for  me 
had  been  the  cause  h Oh  ! if  she  have  sinned  for  my  sake  ! 
Wretch  that  I am  ! Miserable  myself,  and  bringing  misery  with 
me  ! Why  was  I ever  born  ? Why  cannot  I die — and  the 
world  be  rid  of  me  ? ” 

Ho,  she  would  not  believe  it.  It  was  a wicked,  horrible, 
temptation  of  the  devil.  She  would  rather  believe  that  she 
herself  had  been  the  thief,  tempted  during  her  unconsciousness  ; 
that  she  had  hidden  it  somewhere ; that  she  should  recollect, 
confess,  restore  all  some  day.  She  would  carry  it  to  him  her- 
self, grovel  at  his  feet,  and  entreat  forgiveness.  “ He  will  surely 
forgive,  when  he  finds  that  I was  not  myself  when — that  it  was 


178  THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 

not  altogether  my  fault — not  as  if  I had  been  waking — yes,  he 
will  forgive  ! ” And  then  on  that  thought  followed  a dream  of 
what  might  follow,  so  wild  that  a moment  after  she  had  hid  he? 
blushes  in  her  hands,  and  fled  to  books  to  escape  from  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 

We  must  now  return  to  Elsley,  vTho  had  walked  home  in  a 
state  of  mind  truly  pitiable.  He  had  been  flattering  his  soul 
with  the  hope  that  Thurnall  did  not  know  him ; that  his  beard, 
and  the  change  which  years  had  made,  formed  a sufficient  disguise  : 
but  lie  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  the  very  same  altera- 
tions had  not  prevented  his  recognising  Thurnall ; and  he  had 
been  living  for  two  months  past  in  continual  fear  that  that 
would  come  which  now  had  come. 

His  rage  and  terror  knew  no  bounds.  Fancying  Thurnall  a 
merely  mean  and  self-interested  worldling,  untouched  by  those 
higher  aspirations  which  stood  to  him  in  place  of  a religion,  he 
imagined  him  making  every  possible  use  of  his  power;  and 
longed  to  escape  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  from  his  old 
tormentor,  whom  the  very  sea  would  not  put  out  of  the  way, 
but  must  needs  cast  ashore  at  his  very  feet,  to  plague  him 
afresh. 

What  a net  he  had  spread  around  his  own  feet,  by  one  act  of 
foolish  vanity  ! He  had  taken  his  present  name,  merely  as  a 
nom  de  guerre , when  first  he  came  to  London  as  a penniless  and 
friendless  scribbler.  It  would  hide  him  from  the  ridicule  (and, 
as  he  fancied,  spite)  of  Thurnall,  whom  he  dreaded  meeting  every 
time  he  walked  London  streets,  and  who  was  for  years,  to  his 
melancholic  and  too  intense  fancy,  his  bete  noir , his  Franken- 
stein’s familiar.  Beside,  he  was  ashamed  of  the  name  of  Briggs. 

It  certainly  is  not  an  euphonious  or  aristocratic  name ; and 
u The  Soul’s  Agonies,  by  John  Briggs,”  would  not  have  sounded 
as  well  as  “ The  Soul’s  Agonies,  by  Elsley  Vavasour.”  Vavasour  j 
was  a very  pretty  name,  and  one  of  those  which  is  supposed  by 
novelists  and  young  ladies  to  be  aristocratic  ; — why  so  is  a puzzle ; 1 

as  its  plain  meaning  is  a tenant-farmer,  and  nothing  more  nor  less. 

So  he  had  played  with  the  name  till  he  became  fond  of  it,  and 
considered  that  he  had  a right  to  it,  through  seven  long  years  of 
weary  struggles,  penury,  disappointment,  as  he  climbed  the 
Parnassian  Mount,  writing  for  magazines  and  newspapers,  sub- 
editing this  periodical  and  that ; till  he  "began  to  be  known  as  a 


THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT.  179 

ready,  graceful,  and  trustworthy  workman,  and  was  befriended 
by  one  kind-hearted  litterateur  after  another.  For  in  London,  at 
this  moment,  any  young  man  of  real  power  will  find  friends 
enough,  and  too  many,  among  his  fellow  bookwrights,  and  is 
more  likely  to  have  his  head  turned  by  flattery,  than  his  heart 
crushed  by  envy.  Of  course,  whatsoever  flattery  he  may  receive, 
he  is  expected  to  return  ; and  whatsoever  clique  he  may  bo 
tossed  into  on  his  debut , he  is  expected  to  stand  by,  and  fight 
for,  against  the  universe ; but  that  is  but  fair.  If  a young 
gentleman,  invited  to  enrol  himself  in  the  Mutual-puffery  Society 
which  meets  every  Monday  and  Friday  in  Hatchgoose  the  pub- 
lisher’s drawing-room,  is  willing  to  pledge  himself  thereto  in  the 
mystic  cup  of  tea,  is  he  not  as  solemnly  bound  thenceforth  to 
support  those  literary  Catilines  in  their  efforts  for  the  subversion 
of  common  sense,  good  taste,  and  established  things  in  general, 
as  if  he  had  pledged  them,  as  he  would  have  done  in  Eome  of 
old,  in  his  own  life-blood  ? Bound  he  is,  alike  by  honour  and 
by  green  tea  ; and  it  will  be  better  for  him  to  fulfil  his  bond. 
For  if  association  is  the  cardinal  principle  of  the  age,  will  it  not 
work  as  well  in  book-making  as  in  clothes-making  ] And  shall 
not  the  motto  of  the  poet  (who  will  also  do  a little  reviewing  on 
the  sly)  be  henceforth  that  which  shines  triumphant  over  all  the 
world,  on  many  a valiant  Scotchman’s  shield — 

“ Caw  me,  and  I’ll  caw  thee  ” ? 

But  to  do  John  Briggs  justice,  he  kept  his  hands,  and  his 
heart  also,  cleaner  than  most  men  do,  during  this  stage  of  his 
career.  After  the  first  excitement  of  novelty,  and  of  mixing 
with  people  who  could  really  talk  and  think,  and  wdio  freely 
spoke  out  whatever  was  in  them,  right  or  wrong,  in  language 
which  at  least  sounded  grand  and  deep,  he  began  to  find  in  the 
literary  world  about  the  same  satisfaction  for  his  inner  life  which 
he  would  have  found  in  the  sporting  world,  or  the  commercial 
world,  or  the  religious  world,  or  the  fashionable  world,  or  any 
other  world,  and  to  suspect  strongly  that  wheresoever  a world  is, 
the  flesh  and  the  devil  are  not  very  far  off.  Tired  of  talking 
when  he  wanted  to  think,  of  asserting  when  he  wanted  to 
discover,  and  of  hearing  his  neighbours  do  the  same;  tired  of 
little  meannesses,  envyings,  intrigues,  jobberies  (for  the  literary 
world,  too,  has  its  jobs),  he  had  been  for  some  time  withdrawing 
himself  from  the  Hatchgoose  soirees  into  his  own  thoughts, 
when  his  “ Soul’s  Agonies”  appeared,  and  he  found  himself* 
if  not  a lion,  at  least  a lion’s  cub. 

There  is  a house  or  two  in  Town  where  you  may  meet,  on 
certain  evenings,  everybody;  where  duchesses  and  unfledged 
poets,  bishops  and  red  republican  refugees,  fox-hunting  noblemen 

n 2 


180  THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT 

and  briefless  barristers  who  have  taken  to  politics,  are  jumbled 
together  for  a couple  of  hours,  to  make  what  they  can  out  of 
each  other,  to  the  exceeding  benefit  of  them  all.  Eor  each  and 
every  one  of  them  finds  his  neighbour  a pleasanter  person  than 
he  expected ; and  none  need  leave  those  rooms  without  knowing 
something  more  than  he  did  when  he  came  in,  and  taking  an 
interest  in  some  human  being  who  may  need  that  interest.  To 
one  of  these  houses,  no  matter  which,  Elsley  was  invited  on  the 
strength  of  the  “ Soul’s  Agonies ; ” found  himself,  for  the  first 
time,  face  to  face  with  high-bred  Englishwomen ; and  fancied — 
small  blame  to  him — that  he  was  come  to  the  mountains  of  the 
Peris,  and  to  Eairy  Land  itself.  He  had  been  flattered  already  : 
but  never  with  such  grace,  such  sympathy,  or  such  seeming 
understanding ; for  there  are  few  high-bred  women  who  cannot 
seem  to  understand,  and  delude  a hapless  genius  into  a belief  in 
their  own  surpassing  brilliance  and  penetration,  while  they  are 
cunningly  retailing  again  to  him  the  thoughts  which’  they  have 
caught  up  from  the  man  to  whom  they  spoke  last ; perhaps — for 
this  is  the  very  triumph  of  their  art — from  the  very  man  to 
whom  they  are  speaking.  Small  blame  to  bashful,  clumsy  John 
Briggs,  if  he  did  not  know  his  own  children;  and  could  not 
recognise  his  own  stammered  and  fragmentary  fancies,  when 
they  were  re-echoed  to  him  the  next  minute,  in  the  prettiest 
shape,  and  with  the  most  delicate  articulation,  from  lips  which 
(like  those  in  the  fairy  tale)  never  opened  without  dropping  pearls 
and  diamonds. 

Oh,  what  a contrast,  in  the  eyes  of  a man  whose  sense  of 
beauty  and  grace,  whether  physical  or  intellectual,  was  true  and 
deep,  to  that  ghastly  ring  of  prophetesses  in  the  Hatchgoose 
drawing-room  ; strong-minded  and  emancipated  women,  who 
prided  themselves  on  having  cast  off  conventionalities,  and  on 
being  rude,  and  awkward,  and  dogmatic,  and  irreverent,  and 
sometimes  slightly  improper ; women  who  had  missions  to  mend 
everything  in  heaven  and  earth,  except  themselves ; who  had 
quarrelled  with  their  husbands,  and  had  therefore  felt  a mission 
to  assert  women’s  rights,  and  reform  marriage  in  general ; or  who 
had  never  been  able  to  get  married  at  all,  and  therefore  were 
especially  competent  to  promulgate  a model  method  of  educating  I 
the  children  whom  they  never  had  had;  women  who  wrote 
poetry  about  Lady  Blanches  whom  they  never  had  met,  and 
novels  about  male  and  female  blackguards  whom  (one  hopes) 
they  never  had  met,  or  about  whom  (if  they  had)  decent  women 
would  have  held  their  peace ; and  every  one  of  whom  had,  in 
obedience  to  Emerson,  “followed  her  impulses,”  and  despised 
fashion,  and  was  accordingly  clothed  and  bedizened  as  was  right 
in  the  sight  of  her  own  eyes,  and  probably  in  those  of  no  one  else. 


THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT.  181 

No  wonder  that  Elsley,  ere  long,  began  drawing  comparisons, 
and  using  his  wit  upon  ancient  patronesses,  of  course  behind 
their  backs,  likening  them  to  idols  fresh  from  the  car  of  Jugger- 
naut, or  from  the  stern  of  a South-sea  canoe  ; or,  most  of  all,  to 
that  famous  wooden  image  of  Ereya,  which  once  leapt  lumbering 
forth  from  her  bullock-cart,  creaking  and  rattling  in  every  oaken 
joint,  to  belabour  the  too  daring  Viking  who  was  flirting  with 
her  priestess.  Even  so,  whispered  Elsley,  did  those  brains  and 
tongues  creak  and  rattle,  lumbering  before  the  blasts  of  Pythonic 
inspiration ; and  so,  he  verily  believed,  would  the  awkward  arms 
and  legs  have  done  likewise,  if  one  of  the  Pythonesses  had  ever 
so  far  degraded  herself  as  to  dance. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  those  gifted  dames  had  soon  to  com- 
plain of  Elsley  Vavasour  as  a traitor  to  the  cause  of  progress  and 
civilization  ; a renegade  who  had  fled  to  the  camp  of  aristocracy, 
flunkeydom,  obscurantism,  frivolity,  and  dissipation ; though 
there  was  not  one  of  them  but  would  have  given  an  eye — per- 
haps no  great  loss  to  the  aggregate  loveliness  of  the  universe — 
for  one  of  his  invitations  to  999,  Cavendish  Street  south-east, 
with  the  chance  of  being  presented  to  the  Duchess  of  Lyonesse. 

To  do  Elsley  justice,  one  reason  why  he  liked  his  new 
acquaintances  so  well  was,  that  they  liked  him.  He  behaved 
well  himself,  and  therefore  people  behaved  well  to  him.  He  was, 
as  I have  said,  a very  handsome  fellow  in  his  way ; therefore 
it  was  easy  to  him,  as  it  is  to  all  physically  beautiful  persons,  to 
acquire  a graceful  manner.  Moreover,  he  had  steeped  his  whole 
soul  in  old  poetry,  and  especially  in  Spenser’s  Eaery  Queen. 
Good  for  him,  had  he  followed  every  lesson  which  he  might 
have  learnt  out  of  that  most  noble  of  English  books  : but  one 
lesson  at  least  he  learnt  from  it ; and  that  was,  to  be  chivalrous, 
tender,  and  courteous  to  all  women,  however  old  or  ugly,  simply 
because  they  were  women.  The  Hatchgoose  Pythonesses  did 
not  wish  to  be  women,  but  very  bad  imitations  of  men  ; and 
therefore  he  considered  himself  absolved  from  all  knightly  duties 
toward  them  : but  toward  these  Peris  of  the  west,  and  to  the 
dowagers  who  had  been  Peris  in  their  time,  what  adoration 
could  be  too  great  h So  he  bowed  down  and  worshipped ; and, 
on  the  whole,  he  was  quite  right  in  so  doing.  Moreover,  he 
had  the  good  sense  to  discover,  that  though  the  young  Peris  were 
the  prettiest  to  look  at,  the  elder  Peris  were  the  better  company  : 
and  that  it  is,  in  general,  from  married  women  that  a poef  or  any 
one  else  will  ever  learn  what  woman’s  heart  is  like.  And  so 
well  did  he  carry  out  his  creed,  that  before  his  first  summer  was 
over  he  had  quite  captivated  the  heart  of  old  Lady  Knockdown, 
aunt  to  Lucia  St.  Just,  and  wife  to  Lucia’s  guardian  ; a charming 
old  Irishwoman,  who  affected  a pretty  brogue,  perhaps  for  the 


182  THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 

same  reason  that  she  wore  a wig,  and  who  had  been,  in  her  day, 
a beauty  and  a blue,  a friend  of  the  Miss  Berrys,  and  Tommy 
Moore,  and  Grattan,  and  Lord  Edward  Eitzgerald,  and  Dan 
O’Connell,  and  all  other  lions  and  lionesses  which  had  roared 
for  the  last  sixty  years  about  the  Emerald  Isle.  There  was  no 
one  whom  she  did  not  know,  and  nothing  she  coaid  not  talk 
about.  Married  up,  when  a girl,  to  a man  for  whom  she  did 
not  care,  and  having  no  children,  she  had  indemnified  herself  by 
many  flirtations,  and  the  writing  of  two  or  three  novels,  in  which 
she  penned  on  paper  the  superfluous  feeling  which  had  no  vent 
in  real  life.  She  had  deserted,  as  she  grew  old,  the  novel  for 
unfulfilled  prophecy;  and  was  a distinguished  leader  in  a dis- 
tinguished religious  coterie  : but  she  still  prided  herself  upon 
having  a green  head  upon  grey  shoulders ; and  not  without 
reason ; for  underneath  all  the  worldliness  and  intrigue,  and 
petty  affectation  of  girlishness,  which  she  contrived  to  jumble  in 
with  her  religiosity,  beat  a young  and  kindly  heart.  So  she 
was  charmed  with  Mr.  Vavasour’s  manners,  and  commended 
them  much  to  Lucia,  who,  a shrinking  girl  of  seventeen,  was 
peeping  at  her  first  season  from  under  Lady  Knockdown’s 
sheltering  wing. 

“Me  dear,  let  Mr.  A7avasour  be  who  he  will,  he  has  not  only 
the  intellect  of  a true  genius,  but  what  is  a great  deal  better  for 
practical  purposes;  that  is,  the  manners  of  one.  Give  me  the 
man  who  will  let  a woman  of  our  rank  say  what  we  like  to  him, 
without  supposing  that  he  may  say  what  he  likes  in  return ; 
and  considers  one’s  familiarity  as  an  honour,  and  not  as  an 
excuse  for  taking  liberties.  A most  agreeable  contrast,  indeed, 
to  the  young  men  of  the  present  day;  who  come  in  their  shooting 
jackets,  and  talk  slang  to  their  partners, — though  really  the 
girls  are  just  as  bad, — and  stand  with  their  backs  to  the  fire, 
and  smell  of  smoke,  and  go  to  sleep  after  dinner,  and  pay  no 
respect  to  old  age,  nor  to  youth  either,  I think.  ’Pon  me  word, 
Lucia,  the  answers  I’ve  heard  young  gentlemen  make  to  young 
ladies,  this  very  season, — they’d  have  been  called  out  the  next 
morning  in  my  time,  me  dear.  As  for  the  age  of  chivalry, 
nobody  expects  that  to  be  restored  : but  really  one  might  have 
been  spared  the  substitute  for  it  which  we  had  when  I was 
young,  in  the  grand  air  of  the  old  school.  It  was  a c sham,’  I 
daresay,  as  they  call  everything  now-a-days:  but  really,  me  dear, 
a pleasant  sham  is  better  to  live  with  than  an  unpleasant  reality, 
especially  when  it  smells  of  cigars.” 

So  it  befell  that  Elsley  Vavasour  was  asked  to  Lady  Knock- 
down’s, and  that  there  he  fell  in  love  with  Lucia,  and  Lucia  fell 
in  love  with  him. 

The  next  winter,  old  Lord  Knockdown,  who  had  been  decrepit 


THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT, 


183 


for  some  years  past,  died ; and  his  widow,  whose  income  was 
under  five  hundred  a year, — for  the  estates  were  entailed,  and 
mortgaged,  and  everything  else  which  can  happen  to  an  Irish 
property, — came  to  live  with  her  nephew,  Lord  Scoutbush,  in 
Eaton  Square,  and  take  such  care  as  she  could  of  Lucia  and 
Valencia. 

So,  after  a dreary  autumn  and  winter  of  parting  and  silence, 
Elsley  found  himself  the  next  season  invited  to  Eaton  Square ; 
there  the  mischief,  if  mischief  it  was,  was  done ; and  Elsley  and 
Lucia  started  in  life  upon  two  hundred  a year.  He  had  inherited 
some  fifty  of  his  own;  she  had  about  a hundred  and  fifty, 
which,  indeed,  was  not  yet  her  own  by  right ; but  little  Scout - 
bush  (who  was  her  sole  surviving  guardian)  behaved  on  the 
whole  very  well  for  a young  gentleman  of  twenty-two,  in  a state 
of  fury  and  astonishment.  The  old  Lord  had,  wisely  enough, 
settled  in  his  will  that  Lucia  was  to  enjoy  the  interest  of  her 
fortune  from  the  time  that  she  came  out,  provided  she  did  not 
marry  without  her  guardian’s  leave ; and  Scoutbush,  to  avoid 
esclandre  and  misery,  thought  it  as  well  to  waive  the  proviso, 
and  paid  her  her  dividends  as  usual. 

But  how  had  she  contrived  to  marry  at  all  without  his  leave  ? 
That  is  an  ugly  question.  I will  not  say  that  she  had  told  a 
falsehood,  or  that  Elsley  had  forsworn  himself  when  he  got  the 
licence  : but  certainly  both  of  them  were  guilty  of  something 
very  like  a white  lie,  when  they  declared  that  Lucia  had  the 
consent  of  her  sole  surviving  guardian,  on  the  strength  of  an 
half-angry,  half-jesting  expression  of  Scoutbush’s,  that  she  might 
marry  whom  she  chose,  provided  she  did  not  plague  him.  In 
the  first  triumph  of  success  and  intoxication  of  wedded  bliss, 
Lucia  had  written  him  a saucy  letter,  reminding  him  of  his 
permission,  and  saying  that  she  had  taken  him  at  his  word  : 
but  her  conscience  smote  her ; and  Elsley’s  smote  him  likewise ; 
and  smote  him  all  the  more,  because  he  had  been  married  under 
a false  name,  a fact  which  might  have  ugly  consequences  in  law 
which  he  did  not  like  to  contemplate.  To  do  him  justice,  he 
had  been,  half-a-dozen  times  during  his  courtship,  on  the  point 
of  telling  Lucia  his  real  name  and  history.  Happy  for  him  had 
he  done  so,  whatever  might  have  been  the  consequences:  but 
he  wanted  moral  courage;  the  hideous  sound  of  Briggs  had 
become  horrible  to  him  ; and  once  his  foolish  heart  was  fright- 
ened away  from  honesty,  just  as  honesty  was  on  the  point  of 
conquering,  by  old  Lady  Knockdown’s  saying  that  she  could 
never  have  married  a man  with  an  ugly  name,  or  let  Lucia 
marry  one. 

“ Conceive  becoming  Mrs.  Hatty  Bumppo,  me  dear,  even  for 
twenty  thousand  a year.  If  you  could  summon  up  courage  to 


184 


THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 


do  the  deed,  I couldn’t  summon  up  courage  to  continue  my 
correspondence  with  ye.” 

Elsley  knew  that  that  was  a lie  ; that  the  old  lady  would  have 
let  her  marry  the  most  triumphant  snob  in  England,  if  he  had 
half  that  income : but  unfortunately  Lucia  capped  her  aunt’s 
nonsense  with  “ There  is  no  fear  of  my  ever  marrying  any  one 
who  has  not  a graceful  name,”  and  a look  at  Yavasour,  which 
said — “ And  you  have  one,  and  therefore  I — ” For  the  matter 
had  then  been  settled  between  them.  This  was  too  much  for 
his  vanity,  and  too  much,  also,  for  his  fears  of  losing  Lucia  by 
confessing  the  truth.  So  Elsley  went  on,  ashamed  of  his  real 
name,  ashamed  of  having  concealed  it,  ashamed  of  being  afraid 
that  it  would  be  discovered, — in  a triple  complication  of  shame, 
which  made  him  gradually,  as  it  makes  every  man,  moody, 
suspicious,  apt  to  take  offence  where  none  is  meant.  Besides, 
they  were  very  poor.  He,  though  neither  extravagant  nor  pro- 
fligate, was,  like  most  literary  men  who  are  accustomed  to  live 
from  hand  to  mouth,  careless,  self-indulgent,  unmethodical.  She 
knew  as  much  of  housekeeping  as  the  Queen  of  Oude  does; 
and  her  charming  little  dreams  of  shopping  for  herself  were 
rudely  enough  broken,  ere  the  first  week  was  out,  by  the  horrified 
looks  of  Clara,  when  she  returned  from  her  first  morning’s 
marketing  for  the  weekly  consumption,  with  nothing  but  a 
woodcock,  some  truffles,  and  a bunch  of  celery.  Then  the  land- 
lady of  the  lodgings  robbed  her,  even  under  the  nose  of  the 
faithful  Clara,  who  knew  as  little  about  housekeeping  as  her 
mistress  ; and  Clara,  faithful  as  she  was,  repaid  herself  by  grum- 
bling and  taking  liberties  for  being  degraded  from  the  luxurious 
post  of  lady’s  maid  to  that  of  servant  of  all  work,  with  a landlady 
and  “ marchioness  ” to  wrestle  with  all  day  long.  Then,  what 
with  imprudence  and  anxiety,  Lucia  of  course  lost  her  first  child  : 
and  after  that  came  months  of  illness,  during  which  Elsley 
tended  her,  it  must  be  said  for  him,  as  lovingly  as  a mother ; and 
perhaps  they  were  both  really  happier  during  that  time  of  sorrow 
than  they  had  been  in  all  the  delirious  bliss  of  the  honeymoon. 

Valencia  meanwhile  defied  old  Lady  Knockdown  (whose 
horror  and  wrath  knew  no  bounds),  and  walked  off  one  morning 
with  her  maid  to  see  her  prodigal  sister ; a visit  which  not  only 
brought  comfort  to  the  weary  heart,  but  important  practical 
benefits.  Eor  going  home,  she  seized  upon  Scoutbush,  and  so 
moved  his  heart  with  pathetic  pictures  of  Lucia’s  unheard-of 
penuiy  and  misery,  that  his  heart  was  softened  ; and  though  he 
absolutely  refused  to  call  on  Yavasour,  he  made  him  an  offer, 
through  Lucia,  of  Penalva  Court  for  the  time  being;  and  thither 
they  went — perhaps  the  best  thing  they  could  have  done. 

There,  of  course,  they  were  somewhat  more  comfortable.  A 


THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT.  185 

very  cheap  country,  a comfortable  house  rent  free,  and  a lovely 
neighbourhood,  were  a pleasant  change,  after  dear  London 
lodgings  : but  it  is  a question  whether  the  change  made  Elsley 
a better  man. 

In  the  first  place,  he  became  a more  idle  man.  The  rich 
enervating  climate  began  to  tell  upon  his  mind,  as  it  did  upon 
Lucia’s  health.  He  missed  that  perpetual  spur  of  nervous  ex- 
citement, change  of  society,  influx  of  ever-fresh  objects,  which 
makes  London,  after  all,  the  best  place  in  the  world  for  hard 
working ; and  which  makes  even  a walk  along  the  streets  an 
intellectual  tonic.  In  the  soft  and  luxurious  West  Country, 
Nature  invited  him  to  look  at  her,  and  dream  ; and  dream  he 
did,  more  and  more,  day  by  day.  He  was  tired,  too — as  who 
would  not  be  ? — of  the  drudgery  of  writing  for  his  daily  bread  ; 
and  relieved  from  the  importunities  of  publishers  and  printers’- 
devils,  he  sent  up  fewer  and  fewer  contributions  to  the  magazines. 
He  would  keep  his  energies  for  a great  work  ; poetry  was,  after 
all,  his  forte  : he  would  not  fritter  himself  away  on  prose  and 
periodicals,  but  would  win  for  himself,  &c.  &c.  If  he  made  a 
mistake,  it  was  at  least  a pardonable  one. 

But  Elsley  became  not  only  a more  idle,  but  a more  morose 
man.  He  began  to  feel  the  evils  of  solitude.  There  was  no  one 
near  with  whom  he  could  hold  rational  converse,  save  an  anti- 
quarian parson  or  two  ; and  parsons  were  not  to  his  taste.  So, 
never  measuring  his  wits  against  those  of  his  peers,  and  despising 
the  few  men  whom  he  met  as  inferior  to  himself,  he  grew  more 
and  more  wrapt  up  in  his  own  thoughts  and  his  own  tastes. 
His  own  poems,  even  to  the  slightest  turn  of  expression,  became 
more  and  more  important  to  him.  He  grew  more  jealous  of 
criticism,  more  confident  in  his  own  little  theories,  about  this 
and  that,  more  careless  of  the  opinion  of  his  fellow-men,  and,  as 
a certain  consequence,  more  unable  to  bear  the  little  crosses  and 
contradictions  of  daily  life ; and  as  Lucia,  having  brought  one 
and  another  child  safely  into  the  world,  settled  down  into 
motherhood,  he  became  less  and  less  attentive  to  her,  and 
more  and  more  attentive  to  that  self  which  was  fast  becoming 
the  centre  of  his  universe. 

True,  there  were  excuses  for  him ; for  whom  are  there  none  ? 
He  was  poor  and  struggling ; and  it  is  much  more  difficult  (as 
Becky  Sharp,  I think,  pathetically  observes)  to  be  good  when 
one  is  poor  than  when  one  is  rich.  It  is  (and  all  rich  people 
should  consider  the  fact)  much  more  easy,  if  not  to  go  to  heaven, 
at  least  to  think  one  is  going  thither,  on  three  thousand  a year, 
than  on  three  hundred.  Not  only  is  respectability  more  easy,  as 
is  proved  by  the  broad  fact  that  it  is  the  poor  people  who  fill  the 
gaols,  and  not  the  rich  ones  : but  virtue,  and  religion — of  the 


1 86  THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 

popular  sort.  It  is  undeniably  more  easy  to  be  resigned  to  the 
will  of  Heaven,  when  that  will  seems  tending  just  as  we  would 
have  it ; much  more  easy  to  have  faith  in  the  goodness  of  Provi- 
dence, when  that  goodness  seems  safe  in  one’s  pocket  in  the  form 
of  bank-notes  ; and  to  believe  that  one’s  children  are  under  the 
protection  of  Omnipotence,  when  one  can  hire  for  them  in  half  an 
hour  the  best  medical  advice  in  London.  One  need  only  look 
into  one’s  own  heart  to  understand  the  disciples’  astonishment  at 
the  news,  that  “ How  hardly  shall  they  that  have  riches  enter 
into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.” 

“ Who  then  can  be  saved  ? ” asked  they,  being  poor  men, 
accustomed  to  see  the  wealthy  Pharisees  in  possession  of  “the 
highest  religious  privileges,  and  means  of  grace.”  Who,  indeed, 
if  not  the  rich?  If  the  noblemen,  and  the  bankers,  and  the 
dowagers,  and  the  young  ladies  who  go  to  church,  and  read 
good  books,  and  have  been  supplied  from  youth  with  the  very 
best  religious  articles  which  money  can  procure,  and  have  time 
for  all  manner  of  good  works,  and  give  their  hundreds  to 
charities,  and  head  reformatory  movements,  and  build  churches, 
and  work  altar-cloths,  and  can  taste  all  the  preachers  and  father- 
confessors  round  London,  one  after  another,  as  you  would  taste 
wines,  till  they  find  the  spiritual  panacea  which  exactly  suits 
their  complaint — if  they  are  not  sure  of  salvation,  who  can  be 
saved  ? 

Without  further  comment,  the  fact  is  left  for  the  consideration 
of  all  readers  : only  let  them  not  be  too  hard  upon  Elsley  and 
Lucia,  if,  finding  themselves  sometimes  literally  at  their  wits’ 
end,  they  went  beyond  their  poor  wits  into  the  region  where 
foolish  things  are  said  and  done. 

Moreover,  Elsley’s  ill-temper  (as  well  as  Lucia’s)  had  its 
excuses  in  physical  ill-health.  Poor  fellow  ! Long  years  of 
sedentary  work  had  begun  to  tell  upon  him ; and  while  Tom 
Tliurnall’s  chest,  under  the  influence  of  hard  work  and  oxygen, 
measured  round  perhaps  six  inches  more  than  it  had  done 
sixteen  years  ago,  Elsley’s,  thanks  to  stooping  and  carbonic 
acid,  measured  six  inches  less.  Short  breath,  lassitude,  loss 
of  appetite,  heartburn,  and  all  that  fair  company  of  miseries 
wdiich  Mr.  Cockle  and  his  Antibilious  Pills  profess  to  cure, 
are  no  cheering  bosom  friends ; but  when  a man’s  breast-bone 
is  gradually  growing  into  his  stomach,  they  will  make  their 
appearance ; and  small  blame  to  him  whose  temper  suffers  from 
their  gentle  hints  that  he  has  a mortal  body  as  well  as  an 
immortal  soul. 

But  most  fretting  of  all  was  the  discovery  that  Lucia  knew — 
if  not  all  about  his  original  name — still  enough  to  keep  him  in 
dread  lest  she  should  learn  more. 


THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT  187 

It  was  now  twelve  months  and  more  that  this  new  terror  had 
leapt  up  and  stared  in  his  face.  He  had  left  a letter  about — 
a thing  which  he  was  apt  to  do — in  which  the  Whitbury  lawyer 
made  some  allusions  to  his  little  property  ; and  he  was  sure  that 
Lucia  had  seen  it : the  hated  name  of  Briggs  certainly  she  had 
not  seen  ; for  Elsley  had  torn  it  out  the  moment  he  opened  the 
letter  : but  she  had  seen  enough,  as  he  soon  found,  to  be  certain 
that  he  had,  at  some  time  or  other,  passed  under  a different 
name. 

If  Lucia  had  been  a more  thoughtful  or  high-minded  woman, 
she  would  have  gone  straight  to  her  husband,  and  quietly  and 
lovingly  asked  him  to  tell  her  all : but,  in  her  left-handed  Irish 
fashion,  she  kept  the  secret  to  herself,  and  thought  it  a very 
good  joke  to  have  him  in  her  power,  and  to  be  able  to  torment 
him  about  that  letter  when  he  got  out  of  temper.  It  never 
occurred,  however,  to  her  that  his  present  name  was  the  feigned 
one.  She  fancied  that  he  had,  in  some  youthful  escapade, 
assumed  the  name  to  which  the  lawyer  alluded.  So  the  next 
time  he  was  cross,  she  tried  laughingly  the  effect  of  her  newly- 
discovered  spell ; and  was  horror-struck  at  the  storm  which  she 
evoked.  In  a voice  of  thunder,  Elsley  commanded  her  never  to 
mention  the  subject  again ; and  showed  such  signs  of  terror  and 
remorse,  that  she  obeyed  him  from  that  day  forth,  except  when 
now  and  then  she  lost  her  temper  as  completely,  too,  as  he. 
Little  she  thought,  in  her  heedlessness,  what  a dark  cloud  of 
fear  and  suspicion,  ever  deepening  and  spreading,  she  had  put 
between  his  heart  and  hers. 

But  if  Elsley  had  dreaded  her  knowledge  of  his  story,  he 
dreaded  ten  times  more  Tom’s  knowledge  of  it.  What  if  Thur- 
nall  should  tell  Lucia  ? What  if  Lucia  should  make  a confidant 
of  Thurnall?  Women  told  their  doctors  everything  ; and  Lucia, 
he  knew  too  well,  had  cause  to  complain  of  him.  Perhaps, 
thought  he,  maddened  into  wild  suspicion  by  the  sense  of  his 
own  wrong-doing,  she  might  complain  of  him ; she  might  com- 
bine with  Thurnall  against  him — for  what  purpose  he  knew 
not : but  the  wildest  imaginations  flashed  across  him,  as  he 
hurried  desperately  home,  intending  as  soon  as  he  got  there  to 
forbid  Lucia’s  ever  calling  in  his  dreaded  enemy.  Ho,  Thurnall 
should  never  cross  his  door  again  ! On  that  one  point  he  was 
determined,  but  on  nothing  else. 

However,  his  intention  was  never  fulfilled.  Eor  long  before 
he  reached  home  he  began  to  feel  himself  thoroughly  ill.  His 
was  a temperament  upon  which  mental  anxiety  acts  rapidly  and 
severely;  and  the  burning  sun,  and  his  rapid  walk,  combined 
with  rage  and  terror  to  give  him  such  a “ turn  ” that,  as  he 
hurried  down  the  lane,  he  found  himself  reeling  like  a drunken 


188  THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 

man.  He  had  just  time  to  hurry  through  the  garden,  and  into 
his  study,  when  pulse  and  sense  failed  him,  and  he  rolled  over 
on  the  sofa  in  a dead  faint. 

Lucia  had  seen  him  come  in,  and  heard  him  fall,  and  rushed 
in.  The  poor  little  thing  was  at  her  wits’  end,  and  thought 
that  he  had  had  nothing  less  than  a coup-de-soleil.  And  when 
he  recovered  from  his  faintness,  he  began  to  he  so  horribly  ill, 
that  Clara,  who  had  been  called  in  to  help,  had  some  grounds 
for  the  degrading  hypothesis  (for  which  Lucia  all  hut  boxed 
her  ears)  that  “ Master  had  got  away  into  the  woods,  and  gone 
eating  toad-stools,  or  some  such  poisonous  stuff;”  for  he  lay 
a full  half-hour  on  the  sofa,  death-cold,  and  almost  pulseless  ; 
moaning,  shuddering,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  refusing 
cordials,  medicines,  and,  above  all,  a doctor’s  visit. 

However,  this  could  not  be  allowed  to  last.  Without  Elsley’s 
knowledge,  a messenger  was  despatched  for  Thurnall,  and  luckily 
met  him  in  the  lane ; for  he  was  returning  to  the  town  in  the 
footsteps  of  his  victim. 

Elsley’s  horror  was  complete,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Lucia 
brought  in  none  other  than  his  tormentor. 

“ My  dearest  Elsley,  I have  sent  for  Mr.  Thurnall.  I knew 
y ou  would  not  let  me,  if  I told  you ; but  you  see  I have  done  it, 
and  now  you  must  really  speak  to  him.” 

Elsley’s  first  impulse  was  to  motion  them  both  away  angrily; 
but  the  thought  that  he  was  in  Thurnall’s  power  stopped  him. 
He  must  not  show  his  disgust.  What  if  Lucia  were  to  ask 
its  cause,  even  to  guess  it?  for  to  his  fears  even  that  seemed 
possible.  A fresh  misery  ! Just  because  he  shrank  so  intensely 
from  the  man,  he  must  endure  him  ! 

“ There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,”  said  he  languidly. 

“ I should  be  the  best  judge  of  that,  after  what  Mrs.  Vavasour 
has  just  told  me,”  said  Tom,  in  his  most  professional  and  civil 
voice;  and  slipped,  cat-like,  into  a seat  beside  the  unresisting 
poet. 

He  asked  question  on  question  : but  Elsley  gave  such  unsatis- 
factory answers,  that  Lucia  had  to  detail  everything  afresh  for 
him,  with — “ You  know,  Mr.  Thurnall,  he  is  always  overtasking 
his  brain,  and  will  never  confess  himself  ill,” — and  all  a woman’s 
anxious  comments. 

Eogue  Tom  knew  all  the  while  well  enough  what  was  the 
cause : but  he  saw,  too,  that  Elsley  was  very  ill.  He  felt  that 
he  must  have  the  matter  out  at  once ; and,  by  a side  glance,  sent 
the  obedient  Lucia  out  of  the  room  to  get  a table-spoonful  of 
brandy. 

“ How,  my  dear  Sir,  that  we  are  alone,”  began  he  blandly. 

“ How,  Sir!”  answered  Vavasour,  springing  off  the  sofa,  his 


THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 


189 


whole  pent-up  wrath  exploding  in  hissing  steam,  the  moment 
the  safety-valve  was  lifted.  4 4 Now,  Sir  ! What — what  is  the 
meaning  of  this  insolence,  this  intrusion  ? ” 

44 1 beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Vavasour,”  answered  Tom,  rising,  in 
a tone  of  bland  and  stolid  surprise. 

44  What  do  you  want  here,  with  your  mummery  and  medicine, 
when  you  know  the  cause  of  my  malady  well  enough  already  % 
Go,  Sir  ! and  leave  me  to  myself.” 

44  My  dear  Sir,”  said  Tom  firmly,  44  you  seem  to  have  forgotten 
what  passed  between  us  this  morning.” 

44  Will  you  insult  me  beyond  endurance  ?”  cried  Elsley. 

44 1 told  you  that,  as  long  as  you  chose,  you  were  Elsley  Vava- 
sour, and  I the  country  doctor.  We  have  met  in  that  character. 
Why  not  sustain  it  ? You  are  really  ill ; and  if  I know  the 
cause,  I am  all  the  more  likely  to  know  the  cure.” 

44  Cure  V 1 

44 Why  not?  Believe  me,  it  is  in  your  power  to  become  a 
much  happier  man,  simply  by  becoming  a healthier  one.” 

44  Impertinence  !” 

44  Pisli ! What  can  I gain  by  being  impertinent,  Sir  ? I know 
very  well  that  you  have  received  a severe  shock ; but  I know 
equally  well,  that  if  you  were  as  you  ought  to  be,  you  would  not 
feel  it  in  this  way.  When  one  sees  a man  in  the  state  of  pros- 
tration in  which  you  are,  common  sense  tells  one  that  the  body 
must  have  been  neglected,  for  the  mind  to  gain  such  power 
over  it.” 

Elsley  replied  with  a grunt ; but  Tom  went  on,  bland  and 
imperturbable. 

44  Believe  me,  it  may  be  a very  materialist  view  of  things  : but 
fact  is  fact — the  corpus  sanum  is  father  to  the  mens  sana — tonics 
and  exercise  make  the  ills  of  life  look  marvellously  smaller.  You 
have  the  frame  of  a strong  and  active  man  ; and  all  you  want  to 
make  you  light-hearted  and  cheerful,  is  to  develop  what  nature 
has  given  you.” 

44  It  is  too  late,”  said  Elsley,  pleased,  as  most  men  are,  by 
being  told  that  they  might  be  strong  and  active. 

44  Not  in  the  least.  Three  months  would  strengthen  your 
muscles,  open  your  chest  again,  settle  your  digestion,  and  make 
you  as  fresh  as  a lark,  and  able  to  sing  like  one.  Believe  me, 
the  poetry  would  be  the  better  for  it,  as  well  as  the  stomach. 
Now,  positively,  I shall  begin  questioning  you.” 

. So  Elsley  was  won  to  detail  the  symptoms  of  internal  malaise , 
which  he  was  only  too  much  in  the  habit  of  watching  himself ; 
but  there  were  some  among  them  which  Tom  could  not  quite 
account  for  on  the  ground  of  mere  effeminate  habits.  A thought 
struck  him. 


190  THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 

“ You  sleep  ill,  I suppose  ?”  said  he  carelessly. 

“ Very  ill” 

“ Did  you  ever  try  opiates  V ’ 

“ No — yes — that  is,  sometimes.” 

“ Ah  !”  said  Tom,  more  carelessly  still,  for  he  wished  to  hide, 
by  all  means,  the  importance  of  the  confession.  “ Well,  they 
give  relief  for  a time  : hut  they  are  dangerous  things — disorder 
the  digestion,  and  have  their  revenge  on  the  nerves  next  morning, 
as  spitefully  as  brandy  itself.  Much  better  try  a glass  of  strong 
ale  or  porter  just  before  going  to  bed.  I’ve  known  it  give  sleep, 
even  in  consumption — try  it,  and  exercise.  You  shoot  ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Pity ; there  ought  to  be  noble  cocking  in  these  woods. 
However,  the  season’s  past.  You  fish  ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Pity  again.  I hear  Alva  is  full  of  trout.  Why  not  try 
sailing?  Nothing  oxygenates  the  lungs  like  a sail,  and  your 
friends  the  fishermen  would  be  delighted  to  have  you  as  super- 
cargo. They  are  always  full  of  your  stories  to  them,  and  your 
picking  their  brains  for  old  legends  and  adventures.” 

“ They  are  noble  fellows,  and  I want  no  better  company ; 
but,  unfortunately,  I am  always  sea-sick.” 

“Ah  ! wholesome,  but  unpleasant : you  are  fond  of  garden- 
ing ? ” 

“ Yery  ; but  stooping  makes  my  head  swim.” 

“ True,  and  I don’t  want  you  to  stoop.  I hope  to  see  you 
soon  as  erect  as  a Guardsman.  Why  not  try  walks  ? ” 

“ Abominable  bores — lonely,  aimless — ” 

“Well,  perhaps  you’re  right.  I never  knew  but  three  men 
who  took  long  constitutionals  on  principle,  and  two  of  them 
were  cracked.  But  why  not  try  a companion ; and  persuade 
that  Curate,  who  needs  just  the  same  medicine  as  you,  to  accom- 
pany you  ? I don’t  know  a more  gentleman-like,  agreeable, 
well-informed  man  than  he  is.” 

“Thank  you.  I can  choose  my  acquaintances  for  myself.” 

* 1 You  touchy  ass  ! ” said  Thurnall  to  himself.  “ If  we  were 
in  the  blessed  state  of  nature  now,  wouldn’t  I give  you  ten 
minutes’  double  thonging,  and  then  set  you  to  work,  as  the 
runaway  nigger  did  his  master,  Bird  o’  freedom  Sawin,  till  you’d 
learnt  a thing  or  two.”  But  blandly  still  he  went  on. 

“Try  the  dumb-bells  then.  Nothing  like  them  for  opening 
your  chest.  And  do  get  a high  desk  made,  and  stand  to  your 
writing  instead  of  sitting.”  And  Tom  actually  made  Yavasour 
promise  to  do  both,  and  bade  him  farewell  with — 

“ Now,  I’ll  send  you  up  a little  tonic ; and  trouble  you  with 
no  more  visits  till  you  send  for  me.  I shall  see  by  one  glance 


THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 


191 


at  your  face  whether  you  are  following  my  prescriptions.  And, 
I say,  I wouldn’t  meddle  with  those  opiates  any  more  ; try  good 
malt  and  hops  instead.” 

“ Those  who  drink  beer,  think  beer,”  said  Elsley,  smiling ; 
for  he  was  getting  more  hopeful  of  himself,  and  his  terrors  were 
vanishing  beneath  Tom’s  skilful  management. 

“And  those  who  drink  water,  think  water.  The  Elizabethans, 
— Sidney  and  Shakspeare,  Burleigh  and  Queen  Bess,  worked 
on  beef  and  ale, — and  you  would  not  class  them  among  the 
muddle-headed  of  the  earth : Believe  me,  to  write  well,  you 

must  live  well.  If  you  take  it  out  of  your  brain,  you  must  put 
if  in  again.  It’s  a question  of  fact.  Try  it  for  yourself.”  And 
off  Tom  went;  while  Lucia  rushed  back  to  her  husband,  covered 
him  with  caresses,  assured  him  that  he  was  seven  times  as  ill  as 
he  really  was,  and  so  nursed  and  petted  him,  that  he  felt  him- 
self, for  that  time  at  least,  a beast  and  a fool  for  having  suspected 
her  for  a moment.  Ah,  woman,  if  you  only  knew  how  you  carry 
our  hearts  in  your  hands,  and  would  but  use  your  power  for  our 
benefit,  what  angels  you  might  make  us  all ! 

“ So,”  said  Tom,  as  he  went  home,  “ he  has  found  his  way  to 
the  elevation-bottle,  has  he,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Heale  h It’s  no  con- 
cern of  mine  : but  as  a professional  man,  I must  stop  that.  You 
will  certainly  be  no  credit  to  me  if  you  kill  yourself  under  my 
hands.” 

Tom  went  straight  home,  showed  the  blacksmith  how  to  make 
a pair  of  dumb-bells,  covered  them  himself  with  leather,  and 
sent  them  up  the  next  morning  with  directions  to  be  used  for 
half  an  hour  morning  and  evening. 

And  something — whether  it  was  the  dumb-bells,  or  the  tonic, 
or  wholesome  fear  of  the  terrible  doctor — kept  Elsley  for  the 
next  month  in  better  spirits  and  temper  than  he  had  been  in 
for  a long  while. 

Moreover,  Tom  set  Lucia  to  coax  him  into  walking  with 
Headley.  She  succeeded  at  last;  and,  on  the  whole,  each  of 
them  soon  found  that  he  had  something  to  learn  from  the  other. 
Elsley  improved  daily  in  health,  and  Lucia  wrote  to  Valencia 
flaming  accounts  of  the  wonderful  doctor  who  had  been  cast  on 
shore  in  their  world’s  end ; and  received  from  her  after  a while 
this,  amid  much  more — for  fancy  is  not  exuberant  enough  to 
reproduce  the  whole  of  a young  lady’s  letter. 

“ — I am  so  ashamed.  I ought  to  have  told  you  of  that 
doctor  a fortnight  ago ; but,  rattle-pate  as  I am,  I forgot  all 
about  it.  Do  you  know,  he  is  Sabina  Mellot’s  dearest  friend ; 
and  she  begged  me  to  recommend  him  to  you  : but  I put  it  off, 
and  then  it  slipped  my  memory,  like  everything  else  good.  She 
has  told  me  the  most  wonderful  stories  of  his  courage  and  good- 


192  THE  FIRST  INSTALMENT  OF  AN  OLD  DEBT. 

ness;  and  conceive — she  and  her  husband  were  taken  prisoners 
with  him  by  the  savages  in  the  South  Seas,  and  going  to  be 
eaten,  she  says  : but  he  helped  them  to  escape  in  a canoe — such 
a story — and  lived  with  them  for  three  months  on  the  most 
beautiful  desert  island — it  is  all  like  a. fairy  tale.  I’ll  tell  it  you 
when  I come,  darling — which  I shall  do  in  a fortnight,  and  we 
shall  be  all  so  happy.  I have  such  a box  ready  for  you  and  the 
chicks,  which  I shall  bring  with  me  ; and  some  pretty  things 
from  Scoutbush  beside,  who  is  very  low,  poor  fellow,  I cannot 
conceive  what  about : but  wonderfully  tender  about  you.  I 
fancy  he  must  be  in  love  ; for  he  stood  up  the  other  day  about 
you  to  my  aunt,  quite  solemnly,  with,  4 Let  her  alone,  my  lady. 
She’s  not  the  first  whom  love  has  made  a fool  of,  and  she  won’t 
be  the  last : and  I believe  that  some  of  the  moves  which  look 
most  foolish,  turn  out  best  after  all.  Live  and  let  live  ; every- 
body knows  his  own  business  best;  anything  is  better  than 
marriage  without  real  affection.’  Conceive  my  astonishment  at 
hearing  the  dear  little  fellow  turn  sage  in  that  way ! 

“ By  the  way,  I have  had  to  quote  his  own  advice  against 
him;  for  I have  refused  Lord  Chalkclere  after  all.  I told  him 
(C.  not  S.),  that  he  was  much  too  good  for  me ; far  too  perfect 
and  complete  a person;  that  I preferred  a husband  whom  I 
could  break  in  for  myself,  even  though  he  gave  me  a little  trouble. 
Scoutbush  was  cross  at  first ; but  he  said  afterwards  that  it  was 
just  like  Baby  Blake  (the  wretch  always  calls  me  Baby  Blake 
now,  after  that  dreadful  girl  in  Lever’s  Novel) ; and  I told  him 
frankly  that  it  was,  if  he  meant  that  I had  sooner  break  in  a 
thorough-bred  for  myself,  even  though  I had  a fall  or  two  in  the 
process,  than  jog  along  on  the  most  finished  little  pony  on  earth, 
who  would  never  go  out  of  an  amble.  Lord  Chalkclere  may  be 
very  finished,  and  learned,  and  excellent,  and  so  forth  : but,  ma 
cKere,  I want,  not  a white  rabbit  (of  which  he  always  reminds 
me),  but  a hero,  even  though  he  be  a naughty  one.  I always 
fancy  people  must  be  very  little  if  they  can  be  finished  off  so 
rapidly ; if  there  was  any  real  verve  in  them,  they  would  take 
somewhat  longer  to  grow.  Lord  Chalkclere  would  do  very  well 
to  bind  in  Bussian  leather,  and  put  on  one’s  library  shelves,  to 
be  consulted  when  one  forgot  a date;  but  really  even  your 
Ulysses  of  a doctor — provided,  of  course,  he  turned  out  a prince 
in  disguise,  and  don’t  lea\e  out  his  h’s — would  be  more  to  the 
taste  of  your  naughtiest  of  sisters.” 


A PEER  IN  TROUBLE. 


193 


CHAPTER  XII. 


A PEER  IN  TROUBLE. 

Somewhere  in  those  days,  so  it  seems,  did  Mr.  Bowie  call  unto 
himself  a cab  at  the  barrack-gate,  and,  dressed  in  his  best  array, 
repair  to  the  wilds  of  Brompton,  and  request  to  see  either  Claude 
or  Mrs.  Mellot. 

Bowie  is  an  ex-Scots-Eusilier,  who,  damaged  by  the  kick  of  a 
horse,  has  acted  as  valet,  first  to  Scoutbush’s  father,  and  next  to 
Scoutbush  himself.  He  is  of  a patronising  habit  of  mind,  as 
befits  a tolerably  “leeterary  ” Scotsman  of  forty-five  years  of  age 
and  six-feet  three  in  height,  who  has  full  confidence  in  the 
integrity  of  his  own  virtue,  the  infallibility  of  his  own  opinion, 
and  the  strength  of  his  own  right  arm ; for  Bowie,  though  he  has 
a rib  or  two  “dinged  in,”  is  mighty  still  as  Theseus’  self;  and 
both  astonished  his  red-bearded  compatriots,  and  won  money 
for  his  master,  by  his  prowess  in  the  late  feat  of  arms  at  Holland 
House. 

Mr.  Bowie  is  asked  to  walk  into  Sabina’s  boudoir  (for  Claude 
is  out  in  the  garden),  to  sit  down,  and  deliver  his  message ; 
which  he  does  after  a due  military  salute,  sitting  bolt  upright -in 
his  chair,  and  in  a solemn  and  sonorous  voice. 

“ Well,  Madam,  it’s  just  this,  that  his  lordship  would  be  very 
glad  to  see  ye  and  Mr.  Mellot,  for  he’s  vary  ill  indeed,  and 
that’s  truth ; and  if  he  winna  tell  ye  the  cause,  then  I will — 
and  it’s  just  a’  for  love  of  this  play-acting  body  here,  and  more’s 
the  pity.” 

“ More’s  the  pity,  indeed  !” 

“ And  it’s  my  opeenion  the  puir  laddie  will  just  die,  if  nobody 
sees  to  him  ; and  I’ve  taken  the  liberty  of  writing  to  Major 
Cawmill  mysel’,  to  beg  him  to  come  up  and  see  to  him,  for  it’s 
a pity  to  see  his  lordship  cast  away,  for  want  of  an  understanding- 
body  to  advise  him.” 

“ So  I am  not  an  understanding  body,  Bowie  'l  ” 

“ Oh,  Madam,  ye’re  young  and  bonny,”  says  Bowie,  in  a tone 
in  which  admiration  is  not  unmingled  with  pity. 

“ Young  indeed ! Mr.  Bowie,  do  you  know  that  I am  almost 
as  old  as  you  ? ” 

“ Hoot,  hut,  hut — ” says  Bowie,  looking  at  the  wax-like  com- 
plexion and  bright  hawk-eyes. 

“ Really  I am.  I’m  past  five- and- thirty  this  many  a day.” 

o 


194 


A PEER  IN  TROUBLE. 


“ Weel,  then,  Madam,  if  you’ll  excuse  me,  ye’re  old  enough 
to  be  wiser  than  to  let  his  lordship  be  inveigled  with  any  such 
play-acting.” 

“ Eeally  he’s  not  inveigled,”  says  Sabina,  laughing.  “ It  is 
all  his  own  fault,  and  I have  warned  him  how  absurd  and  im- 
possible it  is.  She  has  refused  even  to  see  him ; and  you  know 
yourself  he  has  not  been  near  our  house  for  these  three  weeks.” 

“ Ah,  Madam,  you’ll  excuse  me : but  that’s  the  way  with  that 
sort  of  people,  just  to  draw  back  and  draw  back,  to  make  a poor 
young  gentlemen  follow  them  all  the  keener,  as  a trout  does  u 
minnow,  the  faster  you  spin  it.” 

“ I assure  you  no.  I can’t  let  you  into  ladies’  secrets : but 
there  is  no  more  chance  of  her  listening  to  him  than  of  me. 

And  as  for  me,  I have  been  trying  all  the  spring  to  marry  him 
to  a young  lady  with  eighty  thousand  pounds ; so  you  can’t 
complain  of  me.” 

“ Eh  ? Ho.  That’s  more  like  and  fitting.” 

“Well,  now.  Tell  his  lordship  that  we  are  coming;  and 
trust  us,  Mr.  Bowie  : we  do  not  look  very  villainous,  do 

we]  ” 

“ Faith,  ’deed  then,  and  I suppose  not,”  said  Bowie,  using  the 
verb  which,  in  his  cautious,  Scottish  tongue,  expresses  complete 
certainty.  The  truth  is,  that  Bowie  adores  both  Sabina  and  her 
husband,  who  are,  he  says,  “just  fit  to  be  put  under  a glass  case 
on  the  sideboard,  like  twa  wee  china  angels.” 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  in  Scoutbush’s  rooms.  They  found 
the  little  man  lying  on  his  sofa,  in  his  dressing-gown,  looking 
pale  and  pitiable  enough.  He  had  been  trying  to  read  ; for  the 
table  by  him  was  covered  with  books  : but  either  gunnery  and 
mathematics  had  injured  his  eyes,  or  he  had  been  crying ; 
Sabina  inclined  to  the  latter  opinion. 

“ This  is  very  kind  of  you  both  ; but  I don’t  want  you,  Claude. 

I want  Mrs.  Mellot.  You  go  to  the  window  with  Bowie.” 

Bowie  and  Claude  shrugged  their  shoulders  at  each  other,  and 
, departed. 

“ How,  Mrs.  Mellot,  I can’t  help  looking  up  to  you  as  a 
mother.” 

“ Complimentary  to  my  youth,”  says  Sabina,  who  always  calls  ] 
herself  young  when  she  is  called  old,  and  old  when  she  is  called 
young. 

“ I didn’t  mean  to  be  rude.  But  one  does  long  to  open  one’s 
heart.  I never  had  any  mother  to  talk  to,  you  know ; and  I 
can’t  tell  my  aunt;  and  Valencia  is  so  flighty ; and  I thought 
you  would  give  me  one  chance  more.  Don’t  laugh  at  me,  I say. 

I am  really  past  laughing  at.” 

“ I see  you  are,  you  poor  creature,”  says  Sabina,  melting  ; and 


A PEER  IN  TROUBLE. 


195 


a long  conversation  follows,  while  Claude  and  Bowie  exchange 
confidences,  and  arrive  at  no  result  beyond  the  undeniable 
assertion  ; “ it  is  a very  bad  job.” 

Presently  Sabina  comes  out,  and  Scoutbush  calls  cheerfully 
from  the  sofa  : — 

“ Bowie,  get  my  bath  and  things  to  dress  ; and  order  me  the 
cab  in  half  an  hour.  Good-bye,  you  dear  people,  I shall  never 
thank  you  enough.” 

Away  go  Claude  and  Sabina  in  a hack-cab. 

“ What  have  you  done  h ” 

“ Given  him  what  he  entreated  for — another  chance  with 
Marie.” 

“ It  will  only  madden  him  all  the  more.  Why  let  him  try, 
when  you  know  it  is  hopeless  V 1 

“ Why,  I had  not  the  heart  to  refuse,  that’s  the  truth ; and 
besides,  I don’t  know  that  it  is  hopeless.” 

“ All  the  naughtier  of  you,  to  let  him  run  the  chance  of  making 
a fool  of  himself.” 

“ I don’t  know  that  he  will  make  such  a great  fool  of  himself. 
As  he  says,  his  grandfather  married  an  actress,  and  why  should 
not  he  h ” 

“ Simply  because  she  won’t  marry  him.” 

“And  how  do  you  know  that,  Sir]  You  fancy  that  you 
understand  all  the  women’s  hearts  in  England,  just  because  you 
have  found  out  the  secret  of  managing  one  little  fool.” 

“ Managing  her,  quotha  ! Being  managed  by  her,  till  my  quiet 
house  is  turned  into  a perfect  volcano  of  match-making.  Why, 
I thought  he  was  to  marry  Manchestrina.” 

“ He  shall  marry  who  he  likes ; and  if  Marie  changes  her 
mind,  and  revenges  herself  on  this  American  by  taking  Lord 
Scoutbush,  all  I can  say  is,  it  will  be  a just  judgment  on  him.  I 
have  no  patience  with  the  heartless  fellow,  going  off  thus,  and 
never  even  leaving  his  address.” 

“And  because  you  have  no  patience,  you  think  Marie  will 
have  none  ] ” 

“ What  do  you  know  about  women’s  hearts  ] Leave  us  to 
mind  our  own  matters.” 

“ Mr.  Bowie  will  kill  you  outright,  if  your  plot  succeeds.” 
“Ho,  he  won’t.  I know  who  Bowie  wants  to  marry  ; and  if 
he  is  not  good,  he  shan’t  have  her.  Besides,  it  will  be  such  fun 
to  spite  old  Lady  Knockdown,  who  always  turns  up  her  nose  at 
me.  How  mad  she  will  be  ! Here  we  are  at  home.  How,  I 
shall  go  and  prepare  Marie.” 

An  hour  after,  Scoutbush  was  pleading  his  cause  with  Marie  ; 
and  had  been  met,  of  course,  at  starting,  with  the  simple 
rejoinder, — 


o 2 


196 


A PEER  IN  TROUBLE. 


“ Bat,  my  Lord,  you  would  not  surely  have  me  marry  where  I 
do  not  love  ? ” 

4 4 Oh,  of  course  not ; hut,  you  see,  people  very  often  get  love 
after  they  are  married  : — and  I am  sure  I would  do  all  to  mate 
you  love  me.  I know  I can’t  bribe  you  by  promising  you 
carriages  and  jewels,  and  all  that : — but  you  should  have  what 
you  would  like — pictures  and  statues,  and  books — and  all  that  I 
can  buy — Oh,  Madam,  I know  I am  not  worthy  of  you — I never 
have  had  any  education  as  you  have  !” — 

Marie  smiled  a sad  smile. 

“ But  I would  learn — I know  I could — for  I am  no  fool, 
though  I say  it  : I like  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and — and  if  I had 
you  to  teach  me,  I should  care  about  nothing  else.  I have  given 
up  all  my  nonsense  since  I knew  you ; indeed  I have — I am 
trying  all  day  long  to  read — ever  since  you  said  something  about 
being  useful,  and  noble,  and  doing  one’s  work  : — I have  never 
forgotten  that,  Madam,  and  never  shall;  and  you  would  find 
me  a pleasant  person  to  live  with,  I do  believe.  At  all  events,  I 
would — oh,  Madam — I would  be  your  servant,  your  dog — I 
would  fetch  and  carry  for  you  like  a negro  slave  ! ” 

Marie  turned  pale,  and  rose. 

“ Listen  to  me,  my  Lord ; this  must  end.  You  do  not  know 
to  whom  you  are  speaking.  You  talk  of  negro  slaves.  Know 
that  you  are  talking  to  one  ! ” 

Scoutbush  looked  at  her  in  blank  astonishment. 

“ Madam  ? Excuse  me  : but  my  own  eyes — ” 

“You  are  not  to  trust  them ; I tell  you  fact.” 

Scoutbush  was  silent.  She  misunderstood  his  silence : but 
went  on  steadily. 

“ I tell  you,  my  Lord,  what  I expect  you  to  keep  secret : and 
I know  that  I can  trust  your  honour.” 

Scoutbush  bowed. 

“ And  what  I should  never  have  told  you,  were  it  not  my 
only  chance  of  curing  you  of  this  foolish  passion.  I am  an 
American  slave !” 

“ Curse  them  ! Who  dared  make  you  a slave?”  cried  Scout- 
bush, turning  as  red  as  a game-cock. 

“ I was  born  a slave.  My  father  was  a white  gentleman  of 
good  family : my  mother  was  a quadroon ; and  therefore  I am  a 
slave ; — a negress,  a runaway  slave,  my  Lord,  who,  if  I returned 
to  America,  should  be  seized,  and  chained,  and  scourged,  and 
sold. — Do  you  understand  me  ?” 

“ What  an  infernal  shame  !”  cried  Scoutbush,  to  whom  the 
whole  thing  appeared  simply  as  a wrong  done  to  Marie 
“ Well,  my  Lord  ?” 

“Well,  Madam?” 


A FEER  IN  TROUBLE. 


197 


“ Does  not  this  fact  put  the  question  at  rest  for  ever  ?” 

“ No,  Madam  ! What  do  I know  about  slaves  ? jN  o one  is 
a slave  in  England.  No,  Madam ; all  that  it  does  is  to  make 
me  long  to  cut  half-a-dozen  fellows’  throats — ” and  Scoutbush 
stamped  with  rage.  “ No,  Madam,  you  are  you : and  if  you 
become  my  viscountess,  you  take  my  rank,  I trust,  and  my 
name  is  yours,  and  my  family  yours ; and  let  me  see  who  dare 
interfere ! ” 

“ But  public  opinion,  my  Lord?”  said  Marie,  half- pleased, 
half- terrified  to  find  the  shaft  which  she  had  fancied  fatal  fall 
harmless  at  her  feet. 

“ Public  opinion  ? You  don’t  know  England,  Madam  ! What’s 
the  use  of  my  being  a peer,  if  I can’t  do  what  I like,  and  make 
public  opinion  go  my  way,  and  not  I its  ? Though  I am  no 
great  prince,  Madam,  but  only  a poor  Irish  viscount,  it’s  hard  if 
I can’t  marry  whom  I like — in  reason,  that  is — and  expect  all 
the  world  to  call  on  her,  and  treat  her  as  she  deserves  Why, 
Madam,  you  will  have  all  London  at  your  feet  after  a season  or 
two,  and  all  the  more  if  they  know  your  story  : or  if  you  don’t 
like  that,  or  if  fools  did  talk  at  first,  why  we’d  go  and  live  quietly 
at  Kilanbaggan,  or  at  Penalva,  and  you’d  have  all  the  tenants 
looking  up  to  you  as  a goddess,  as  I do,  Madam. — Oh,  Madam, 
I would  go  anywhere,  live  anywhere,  only  to  be  with  you  !” 

Marie  was  deeply  affected.  Making  all  allowances  for  the 
wilfulness  of  youth,  she  could  not  but  see  that  her  origin  formed 
no  bar  whatever  to  her  marrying  a nobleman;  and  that  he  honestly 
believed  that  it  would  form  none  in  the  opinion  of  his  compeers, 
if  she  proved  herself  worthy  of  his  choice ; and,  full  of  new 
emotions,  she  burst  into  tears. 

“ There,  now,  you  are  melting  : I knew  you  would  ! Madam  ! 
Signora  ! ” and  Scoutbush  advanced  to  take  her  hand. 

“ Never  less,”  cried  she,  drawing  back.  “ Do  not ; — you  only 
make  me  miserable  ! I tell  you  it  is  impossible.  I ca?mot  tell 
you  all. — You  must  not  do  yourself  and  yours  such  an  injustice ! 
Go,  I tell  you  !” 

Scoutbush  still  tried  to  take  her  band. 

“ Go,  I entreat  you,”  cried  she,  at  her  wits’  end,  “ or  I will 
really  ring  the  bell  for  Mrs.  Mellot !” 

“ You  need  not  do  that,  Madam,”  said  he,  drawing  himself 
up ; “ I am  not  in  the  habit  of  being  troublesome  to  ladies,  or 
being  turned  out  of  drawing-rooms.  I see  how  it  is — ” and  his 
tone  softened ; “ you  despise  me,  and  think  me  a vain,  frivolous 
puppy. — Well;  I’ll  do  something  yet  that  you  shall  not  despise!” 
And  he  turned  to  go. 

“ I do  not  despise  you ; I think  you  a generous,  high-hearted 
gentleman — nobleman  in  all  senses.” 


198 


A PEER  IN  TROUBLE. 


Scoutbush  turned  again. 

“ But,  again,  impossible ! I shall  always  respect  you ; but  we 
must  never  meet  again.  ” 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Little  Freddy  caught  and  kissed  it 
till  he  was  breathless,  and  then  rushed  out,  and  blundered  over 
Sabina  in  the  next  room. 

“ USTo  hope  V9 

“ None.”  And  though  he  tried  to  squeeze  his  eyes  together 
very  tight,  the  great  tears  would  come  dropping  down. 

Sabina  took  him  to  a sofa,  and  sat  him  down  while  he  made 
his  little  moan. 

“ I told  you  that  she  was  in  love  with  the  American.” 

“ Then  why  don’t  he  come  back  and  marry  her?  Hang  him. 
I’ll  go  after  him  and  make  him  !”  cried  Scoutbush,  glad  of  any 
object  on  which  to  vent  his  wrath. 

“ You  can’t,  for  nobody  knows  where  he  is.  Now  do  be  good 
and  patient ; you  will  forget  all  this.” 

“ I shan’t  !” 

“You  will ; not  at  first,  but  gradually  ; and  marry  some  one 
really  more  fit  for  you.” 

“ Ah,  but  if  I marry  her  I shan’t  love  her ; and  then,  you  know, 
Mrs.  Mellot,  I shall  go  to  the  bad  again,  just  as  much  as  ever. 
Oh,  I was  trying  to  be  steady  for  her  sake  !” 

“You  can  be  that  still.” 

“Yes,  but  it’s  so  hard,  with  nothing  to  hope  for.  I’m  not  fit 
to  take  care  of  myself.  I’m  fit  for  nothing,  I believe,  but  to  go 
out  and  be  shot  by  those  Bussians  ; and  I’ll  do  it  ! ” 

“You  must  not ; you  are  not  strong  enough.  The  doctors 
would  not  let  you  go  as  you  are.” 

“ Then  I’ll  get  strong  ; I’ll — ” 

“ You’ll  go  home,  and  be  good.” 

“ Ain’t  I good  now  ? ” 

“Yes,  you  are  a good,  sensible  fellow,  and  have  behaved 
nobly,  and  I honour  you  for  it,  and  Claude  shall  come  and  see 
you  every  day.” 

That  evening  a note  came  from  Scoutbush. 

“Dear  Mrs.  Mellot, — Whom  should  I find  when  I went 
home,  but  Campbell  ? I told  him  all ; and  he  says  that  you  and 
everybody  have  done  quite  right,  so  I suppose  you  have ; and 
that  I am  quite  right  in  trying  to  get  out  to  the  East,  so  I shall 
do  it.  But  the  doctor  says  I must  rest  for  six  weeks  at  least. 
So  Campbell  has  persuaded  me  to  take  the  yacht,  which  is  at 
Southampton,  and  go  down  to  Aberalva,  and  then  round  to 
Snowdon,  where  I have  a little  slate-quarry,  and  get  some  fishing. 
Campbell  is  coming  with  me,  and  I wish  Claude  would  come  too. 


A PEER  IN  TROUBLE. 


199 


He  knows  that  "brother-in-law  of  mine,  Vavasour,  I think,  and  I 
shall  go  and  make  friends  with  him.  I’ve  got  very  merciful  to 
foolish  lovers  lately,  and  Claude  can  help  me  to  face  him  ; for  I 
am  a little  afraid  of.  geniuses,  you  know.  So  there  we’ll  pick 
up  my  sister  (she  goes  down  "by  land  this  week),  and  then  go 
on  to  Snowdon ; and  Claude  can  visit  his  old  quarters  at  the 
Royal  Oak  at  Bettws,  where  he  and  I had  that  jolly  week  among 
the  painters.  Do  let  him  come,  and  beg  La  Signora  not  to  be 
angry  with  me.  That’s  all  I’ll  ever  ask  of  her  again.” 

“ Poor  fellow  ! But  I can’t  part  with  you,  Claude.” 

“Let  him,”  said  La  Cordifiamma.  “ He  will  comfort  hi» 
lordship  ; and  do  you  come  with  me.” 

“ Come  with  you  1 Where  V ’ 

“ I will  tell  you  when  Claude  is  gone.” 

“ Claude,  go  and  smoke  in  the  garden.  How  1 ” 

“ Come  with  me  to  Germany,  Sabina.” 

“ To  Germany  Why  on  earth  to  Germany  h ” 

“ I — I only  said  Germany  because  it  came  first  into  my  mind. 
Anywhere  for  rest ; anywhere  to  be  out  of  that  poor  man’s  way.’7 
“ He  will  not  trouble  you  any  more  ; and  you  will  not  surely 
throw  up  your  engagement  ? ” 

“ Of  course  not ! ” said  she,  half  peevishly.  “ It  will  be  over 
in  a fortnight ; and  then  I must  have  rest.  Don’t  you  see  how 
I want  rest  ? ” 

Sabina  had  seen  it  for  some  time  past.  That  white  cheek  had 
been  fading  more  and  more  to  a wax-like  paleness ; those  black 
eyes  glittered  with  fierce  unhealthy  light ; and  dark  rings  round 
them  told,  not  merely  of  late  hours  and  excitement,  but  of  wild 
passion  and  midnight  tears.  Sabina  had  seen  all,  and  could  not 
but  give  way,  as  Marie  went  on. 

“ I must  have  rest,  I tell  you  ! I am  beginning — I can 
confess'  all  to  you — to  want  stimulants.  I am  beginning  to 
long  for  brandy  and  water — pah  ! — to  nerve  me  up  to  the  ex- 
citement of  acting,  and  then  for  morphine  to  make  me  sleep 
after  it.  The  very  eau  de  Cologne  flask  tempts  me  ! They  say 
that  the  fine  ladies  use  it,  before  a ball,  for  other  purposes  than 
scent.  You  would  not  like  to  see  me  commence  that  practice, 
would  you  ? ” 

“ There  is  no  fear,  dear.” 

“ There  is  fear  ! You  do  not  know  the  craving  for  exhilara- 
tion, the  capability  of  self-indulgence,  in  our  wild  Tropic  blood. 
Oh,  Sabina,  I feel  at  times  that  I could  sink  so  low — that  I could 
be  so  wicked,  so  utterly  wicked,  if  I once  began ! Take  me 
away,  dearest  creature,  take  me  away,  and  let  me  have  fresh  air, 
and  fair  quiet  scenes,  and  r6st — rest — oh,  save  me,  Sabina  ! ” 
and  she  put  her  hands  over  her  face,  and  burst  into  tears. 


200 


A PEER  IN  TROUBLE. 


“We  will  go,  then  : to  the  Ehine,  shall  it  be  ? I have  not 
been  there  now  for  these  three  years,  and  it  will  be  such  fun 
running  about  the  world  by  myself  once  more,  and  knowing  all 
the  while  that — ” and  Sabina  stopped;  she  did  not  like  to 
remind  Marie  of  the  painful  contrast  between  them. 

“ To  the  Ehine  ? Yes.  And  I shall  see  the  beautiful  old 
world,  the  old  vineyards,  and  castles,  and  hills,  which  he  used 
to  tell  me  of — taught  me  to  read  of  in  those  sweet,  sweet  books 
of  Longfellow’s  ! So  gentle,  and  pure,  and  calm — so  unlike 
me  ! ” 

“ Yes,  we  will  see  them  ; and  perhaps — ” 

Marie  looked  up  at  her,  guessing  her  thoughts,  and  blushed 
scarlet. 

“ You,  too,  think  then,  that — that — ” she  could  not  finish  her 
sentence. 

Sabina  stooped  over  her,  and  the  two  beautiful  mouths  met. 

“ There,  darling,  we  need  say  nothing.  We  are  both  women, 
and  can  talk  without  words.” 

“Then  you  think  there  is  hope  V ’ 

“ Hope  h Do  you  fancy  that  he  is  gone  so  very  far  h or  that 
if  he  were,  I could  not  hunt  him  out  1 Have  I wandered  half 
round  the  world  alone  for  nothing  ] ” 

“Ho,  but  hope — hope  that — ” 

“Hot  hope,  but  certainty ; if  some  one  I know  had  but 
courage.” 

“ Courage — to  do  what  ? ” 

“ To  trust  him  utterly.” 

Marie  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  shuddered  in  every 
limb. 

“You  know  my  story.  Did  I gain  or  lose  by  telling  my 
Claude  all  ? ” 

“ I will ! ” she  cried,  looking  up  pale  but  firm.  “ I will ! ” 
and  she  looked  steadfastly  into  the  mirror  over  the  chimney-piece, 
as  if  trying  to  court  the  reappearance  of  that  ugly  vision  which 
haunted  it,  and  so  to  nerve  herself  to  the  utmost,  and  face  the 
whole  truth. 

In  little  more  than  a fortnight,  Sabina  and  Marie,  with  maid 
and  courier  (for  Marie  was  rich  now),  were  away  in  the  old 
Antwerpen.  And  Claude  was  rolling  down  to  Southampton  by 
rail,  with  Campbell,  Scoutbush,  and  last,  but  not  least,  the 
faithful  Bowie  ; who  had  under  his  charge  what  he  described  to 
the  puzzled  railway-guard  as  “goads  and  cleiks,  and  pirns  and 
creels,  and  beuks  and  heuks,  enough  for  a’  the  cods  o’  Heufund- 
land.” 


L HOMME  INCOMPRIS. 


201 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

L ’ HOMME  IKCOMPRIS. 

Elsley  went  on,  between  improved  health  and  the  fear  of 
Tom  Thurnall,  a good  deal  better  for  the  next  month.  He  began 
to  look  forward  to  Valencia’s  visit  with  equanimity,  and,  at  last, 
with  interest ; and  was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  when,  in 
the  last  week  of  July,  a fly  drove  up  to  the  gate  of  old  Penalva 
Court,  and  he  handed  out  therefrom  Valencia,  and  Valencia’s 
maid. 

Lucia  had  discovered  that  the  wind  was  east,  and  that  she  was 
afraid  to  go  to  the  gate  for  fear  of  catching  cold  ; her  real  purpose 
being,  that  Valencia  should  meet  Elsley  first. 

44  She  is  so  impulsive,”  thought  the  good  little  creature,  always 
plotting  about  her  husband,  44  that  she  will  rush  upon  me,  and 
never  see  him  for  the  first  five  minutes ; and  Elsley  is  so  sen- 
sitive— how  can  he  be  otherwise,  in  his  position,  poor  dear  ] ” 
So  she  refrained  herself,  like  Joseph,  and  stood  at  the  door  till 
Valencia  was  half-way  down  the  garden-walk,  having  taken 
Elsley’s  somewhat  shyly-offered  arm  ; and  then  she  could  refrain 
herself  no  longer,  and  the  two  women  ran  upon  each  other,  and 
kissed,  and  sobbed,  and  talked,  till  Lucia  was  out  of  breath ; 
but  Valencia  was  not  so  easily  silenced. 

44  My  darling  ! and  you  are  looking  so  much  better  than  I 
expected;  but  not  quite  yourself  yet.  That  naughty  baby  is 
killing  you,  I am  sure  ! And  Mr.  Vavasour  too,  I shall  begin 
to  call  him  Elsley  to-morrow,  if  I like  him  as  much  as  I do 
now — but  he  is  looking  quite  thin — wearing  himself  out  with 
writing  so  many  beautiful  books, — that  Wreck  was  perfect ! 
And  where  are  the  children  ? — I must  rush  upstairs  and  devour 
them  ! — and  what  a delicious  old  garden  ! and  dipt  yews,  too, 
so  dark  and  romantic,  and  such  dear  old-fashioned  flowers  ! — 
Mr.  Vavasour  must  show  me  all  over  it,  and  over  that  hanging 
wood,  too.  What  a duck  of  a place  ! — And  oh,  my  dear,  I am 
quite  out  of  breath  ! ” 

And  so  she  swept  in,  with  her  arm  round  Lucia’s  waist ; while 
Elsley  stood  looking  after  her,  well  enough  satisfied  with  her 
reception  of  him,  and  only  hoping  that  the  stream  of  words 
would  slacken  after  a while. 

44  What  a magnificent  creature  ! ” said  he  to  himseif.  44  Who 
could  believe  that  the  three  years  would  make  such  a change ! ” 
And  he  was  right.  The  tall  lithe  girl  had  bloomed  into  full 
glory;  and  Valencia  St.  Just,  though  not  delicately  beautiful, 


202 


l’homme  incompris. 


was  as  splendid  an  Irish  damsel  as  man  need  look  upon,  with  a 
grand  masque,  aquiline  features,  luxuriant  black  hair,  and — • 
though  it  was  the  fag-end  of  the  London  season — tho  unrivalled 
Irish  complexion,  as  of  the  fair  dame  of  Kilkenny,  whose 

“ Lips  were  like  roses,  her  cheeks  were  the  same, 

Like  a dish  of  fresh  strawberries  smother’d  in  crame.” 

Her  figure  was  perhaps  too  tall,  and  somewhat  too  stout  also; 
but  its  size  was  relieved  by  the  delicacy  of  those  hands  and  feet 
of  which  Miss  Valencia  was  most  pardonably  proud,  and  by 
that  indescribable  lissomeness  and  lazy  grace  which  Irishwomen 
inherit,  perhaps,  with  their  tinge  of  southern  blood  ; and  when, 
in  half  an  hour,  she  reappeared,  with  broad  straw-hat,  and  gown 
tucked  up  cl  la  bergere  over  the  striped  Welsh  petticoat,  perhaps 
to  show  off  the  ancles,  which  only  looked  the  finer  for  a pair  of 
heavy  laced  boots,  Elsley  honestly  felt  it  a pleasure  to  look  at 
her,  and  a still  greater  pleasure  to  talk  to  her,  and  to  be  talked 
to  by  her ; while  she,  bent  on  making  herself  agreeable,  partly 
from  real  good  taste,  partly  from  natural  good-nature,  and  partly, 
too,  because  she  saw  in  his  eyes  that  he  admired  her,  chatted 
sentiment  about  all  heaven  and  earth. 

For  to  Miss  Valencia — it  is  sad  to  have  to  say  it — admiration 
had  been  now,  for  three  years,  her  daily  bread.  She  had  lived 
in  the  thickest  whirl  of  the  world,  and,  as  most  do  for  a while, 
found  it  a very  pleasant  place. 

She  had  flirted — with  how  many  must  not  be  told ; and 
perhaps  with  more  than  one  with  whom  she  had  no  business  to 
flirt.  Little  Scoutbush  had  remonstrated  with  her  on  some  such 
affair,  but  she  had  silenced  him  with  an  Irish  jest, — “ You’re  a 
fisherman,  Freddy ; and  when  you  can’t  catch  salmon,  you  catch 
trout ; and  when  you  can’t  catch  trout,  you’ll  whip  on  the 
shallow  for  poor  little  gubbahawns,  and  say  that  it  is  all  to  keep 
your  hand  in — and  so  do  I.” 

The  old  ladies  said  that  this  was  the  reason  why  she  had  not 
married;  the  men,  however,  asserted  that  no  one  dare  marry 
her ; and  one  club-oracle  had  given  it  as  his  opinion  that  no  man 
in  his  rational  senses  was  to  be  allowed  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  her,  till  she  had  been  well  jilted  two  or  three  times,  to  take 
the  spirit  out  of  her : but  that  catastrophe  had  not  yet  occurred, 
and  Miss  Valencia  still  reigned  “triumphant  and  alone,”  though 
her  aunt,  old  Lady  Knockdown,  moved  all  the  earth,  and  some 
dirty  places,  too,  below  the  earth,  to  get  the  wild  Irish  girl  off 
her  hands ; “ for,”  quoth  she,  “ I feel  with  Valencia,  indeed, 
just  like  one  of  those  men  who  carry  about  little  dogs  in  the 
Quadrant.  I always  pity  the  poor  men  so,  and  think  how 
happy  they  must  be  when  they  have  sold  one.  It  is  one  chance 


l’homme  1NCOMPRIS.  203 

less,  you  know,  of  having  it  bite  them  horribly,  and  then  run 
away  after  all.” 

There  was,  however,  no  more  real  harm  in  Valencia,  than 
there  is  in  every  child  of  Adam.  Town  frivolity  had  not  cor- 
rupted her.  She  was  giddy,  given  up  to  enjoyment  of  the 
present : but  there  was  not  a touch  of  meanness  about  her : and 
if  she  was  selfish,  as  every  one  must  needs  be  whose  thoughts 
are  of  pleasure,  admiration,  and  success,  she  was  so  uninten- 
tionally; and  she  would  have  been  shocked  and  pained  at  being 
told  that  she  was  anything  but  the  most  kind-hearted  and 
generous  creature  on  earth.  Major  Campbell,  who  was  her 
Mentor  as  well  as  her  brother’s,  had  certainly  told  her  so  more 
than  once;  at  which  she  had  pouted  a good  deal,  and  cried 
a little,  and  promised  to  amend;  then  packed  up  a heap  of  cast- 
off things  to  send  to  Lucia — half  of  it  much  too  fine  to  be  of 
any  use  to  the  quiet  little  woman ; and  lastly,  gone  out  and 
bought  fresh  finery  for  herself,  and  forgot  all  her  good  reso- 
lutions. Whereby  it  befell  that  she  was  tolerably  deep  in  debt 
at  the  end  of  every  season,  and  had  to  torment  and  kiss  Scout' 
bush  into  paying  her  bills ; which  he  did,  like  a good  brother, 
and  often  before  he  had  paid  his  own. 

But,  howsoever  full  Valencia’s  head  may  have  been  of  fine 
garments  and  London  flirtations,  she  had  too  much  tact  and 
good  feeling  to  talk  that  evening  of  a world  of  which  even 
Elsley  knew  more  than  her  sister.  For  poor  Lucia  had  been 
but  eighteen  at  the  time  of  her  escapade,  and  had  not  been 
presented  twelve  months ; so  that  she  was  as  “ inexperienced  ” 
as  any  one  can  be,  who  has  only  a husband,  three  children, 
and  a household  to  manage  on  less  than  three  hundred  a year. 
Therefore  Valencia  talked  only  of  things  which  would  interest 
Elsley ; asked  him  to  read  his  last  new  poem — which,  I need 
not  say,  he  did ; told  him  how  she  devoured  everything  he 
wrote ; planned  walks  with  him  in  the  country ; seemed  to 
consult  his  pleasure  in  every  way. 

“ To-morrow  morning  I shall  sit  with  you  and  the  children, 
Lucia  ; of  course  I must  not  interrupt  Mr.  Vavasour  : but  really 
in  the  afternoon  I must  ask  him  to  spare  a couple  of  hours  from 
the  Muses.” 

Vavasour  was  delighted  to  do  anything — “ Where  would  she 
walk?” 

“ Where  ? of  course  to  see  the  beautiful  schoolmistress  who 
saved  the  man  from  drowning;  and  then  to  see  the  chasm 
across  which  he  was  swept.  I shall  understand  your  poem  so 
much  better,  you  know,  if  I can  but  realize  the  people  and  the 
place.  And  you  must  take  me  to  see  Captain  Willis,  too, 
and  even  the  Lieutenant — if  he  does  not  smell  too  much  of 


204  L’ HOMME  INCOMPR1S. 

brandy.  I will  be  so  gracious  and  civil,  quite  the  lady  of  the 
castle.” 

“ You  will  make  quite  a royal  progress,”  said  Lucia,  looking 
at  her  with  sisterly  admiration. 

“ Yes,  I intend  to  usurp  as  many  of  Scoutbush’s  honours  as 
I can  till  he  comes.  I must  lay  down  the  sceptre  in  a fort- 
night, you  know,  so  I shall  make  as  much  use  of  it  as  I can 
meanwhile.”  i 

And  so  on,  and  so  on ; meaning  all  the  while  to  put  Elsley 
quite  at  his  ease,  and  let  him  understand  that  bygones  were 
bygones,  and  that  with  her  any  reconciliation  at  all  was  meant 
to  be  a complete  one  ; which  was  wise  and  right  enough.  But 
Valencia  had  not  counted  on  the  excitable  and  vain  natuer  with 
which  she  was  dealing ; and  Lucia,  who  had  her  own  fears  from 
the  first  evening,  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  tell  her 
of  it ; first  from  pride  in  herself,  and  then  from  pride  in  her 
husband.  Eor  even  if  a woman  has  made  a foolish  match,  it  is 
hard  to  expect  her  to  confess  as  much ; and,  after  all,  a husband 
is  a husband,  and  let  his  faults  be  what  they  might,  he  was  still 
her  Elsley ; her  idol  once  ; and  perhaps  (so  she  hoped)  her  idol 
again  hereafter,  and  if  not,  still  he  was  her  husband,  and  that 
was  enough. 

“ By  which  you  mean,  Sir,  that  she  considered  herself  bound 
to  endure  everything  and  anything  from  him,  simply  because 
she  had  been  married  to  him  in  church] ” 

Yes,  and  a great  deal  more.  Not  merely  being  married  in 
church;  but  what  being  married  in  church  means,  and  what 
every  woman  who  is  a woman  understands ; and  lives  up  to 
without  flinching,  though  she  die  a martyr  for  it,  or  a confessor ; 
a far  higher  saint,  if  the  truth  was  known,  as  it  will  be  some 
day,  than  all  the  holy  virgins  who  ever  fasted  and  prayed  in 
a convent  since  the  days  when  Macarius  first  turned  fakeer. 
Eor  to  a true  woman,  the  mere  fact  of  a man’s  being  her 
husband,  put  it  on  the  lowest  ground  that  you  choose,  is  utterly 
sacred,  divine,  all-powerful;  in  the  might  of  which  she  can 
conquer  self  in  a way  which  is  an  every  day  miracle  ; and  the 
man  who  does  not  feel  about  the  mere  fact  of  a woman’s  having- 
given  herself  utterly  to  him,  just  what  she  herself  feels  about 
it,  ought  to  be  despised  by  all  his  fellows  ; — were  it  not  that, 
in  that  case,  it  would  be  necessary  to  despise  more  human  beings 
than  is  safe  for  the  soul  of  any  man. 

That  fortnight  was  the  sunniest  which  Elsley  had  passed, 
since  he  made  secret  love  to  Lucia  in  Eaton  Square.  Bomantic 
walks,  the  company  of  a beautiful  woman  as  ready  to  listen 
as  she  was  to  talk,  free  licence  to  pour  out  all  his  fancies,  sure 
of  admiration,  if  not  of  flattery,  and  pardonably  satisfied  vanity 


l’homme  incomprir. 


205 


— all  these  are  comfortable  things  for  most  men,  who  have 
nothing  better  to  comfort  them.  But,  on  the  whole,  this  feast 
did  not  make  Elsley  a better  or  wiser  man  at  home.  Why 
should  it  ? Is  a boy’s  digestion  improved  by  turning  him  loose 
into  a confectioner’s  shop  ? And  thus  the  contrast  between 
what  he  chose  to  call  Valencia’s  sympathy,  and  Lucia’s  want 
of  sympathy,  made  him,  unfortunately,  all  the  more  cross  to 
her  when  they  were  alone  ; and  who  could  blame  the  poor  little 
woman  for  saying  one  night,  angrily  enough  : 

“ Ah,  yes!  Valencia, — Valencia  is  imaginative — -Valencia 

understands  you — Valencia  sympathises — Valencia  thinks  . . 
Valencia  has  no  children  to  wash  and  dress,  no  accounts  to  keep, 
no  linen  to  mend — Valencia’s  back  does  not  ache  all  day  long, 
so  that  she  would  be  glad  enough  to  lie  on  the  sofa  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  if  she  was  not  forced  to  work  whether  she  can 
work  or  not.  No,  no ; don’t  kiss  me,  for  kisses  will  not  make 
up  for  injustice,  Elsley.  I only  trust  that  you  will  not  tempt 
me  to  hate  my  own  sister.  No  : don’t  talk  to  me  now,  let  me 
sleep  if  I can  sleep ; and  go  and  walk  and  talk  sentiment  with 
Valencia  to-morrow,  and  leave  the  poor  little  brood  hen  to 
sit  on  her  nest,  and  be  despised.”  And  refusing  all  Elsley’s 
entreaties  for  pardon,  she  sulked  herself  to  sleep. 

Who  can  blame  her  ? If  there  is  one  thing  more  provoking 
than  another  to  a woman,  it  is  to  see  her  husband  Strass-engel, 
Haus-teufel,  an  angel  of  courtesy  to  every  woman  but  herself ; to 
see  him  in  society  all  smiles  and  good  stories,  the  most  amiable 
and  self-restraining  of  men  ; perhaps  to  be  complimented  on  his 
agreeableness  : and  to  know  all  the  while  that  he  is  penning  up 
all  the  accumulated  ill-temper  of  the  day,  to  let  it  out  on  her 
when  they  get  home ; perhaps  in  the  very  carriage  as  soon  as  it 
leaves  the  door.  Hypocrites  that  you  are,  some  of  you  gentle- 
men ! Why  cannot  the  act  against  cruelty  to  women,  corporal 
punishment  included,  be  brought  to  bear  on  such  as  you  ? And 
yet,  after  all,  you  are  not  most  to  blame  in  the  matter  : Eve  her- 
self tempts  you,  as  at  the  beginning ; for  who  does  not  know 
that  the  man  is  a thousand  times  vainer  than  the  woman  ? He 
does  but  follow  the  analogy  of  all  nature.  Look  at  the  Eed 
Indian,  in  that  blissful  state  of  nature  from  which  (so  philoso- 
phers inform  those  who  choose  to  believe  them)  we  all  sprung. 
Which  is  the  boaster,  the  strutter,  the  bedizener  of  his  sinful 
carcase  with  feathers  and  beads,  fox-tails  and  bears’  claws, — the 
brave,  or  his  poor  little  squaw  ? An  Australian  settler’s  wife 
bestows  on  some  poor  slaving  gin  a cast- off  French  bonnet;  be- 
fore she  has  gone  a hundred  yards,  her  husband  snatches  it  off, 
puts  it  on  his  own  mop,  quiets  her  for  its  loss  with  a tap  of  the 
waddie,  and  struts  on  in  glory.  Why  not?  Has  he  not  the 


l’homme  incompris. 


f?06 

analogy  of  all  nature  on  his  side  ? Have  not  the  male  birds, 
and  the  male  moths,  the  fine  feathers,  while  the  females  go 
soberly  about  in  drab  and  brown  ? Does  the  lioness,  or  the  lion, 
rejoice  in  the  grandeur  of  a mane ; the  hind,  or  the  stag,  in 
antlered  pride  ? How  know  we  hut  that,  in  some  more  perfect 
and  natural  state  of  society,  the  women  will  dress  like  so  many 
quakeresses ; while  the  frippery  shops  will  become  the  haunts 
of  men  alone,  and  “ browches,  pearls  and  owches  ” be  consecrate 
to  the  nobler  sex  ? There  are  signs  already,  in  the  dress  of  our 
young  gentlemen,  of  such  a return  to  the  law  of  nature  from  the 
present  absurd  state  of  things,  in  which  the  human  peahens 
carry  about  the  gaudy  trains  which  are  the  peacocks'  right. 

Dor  there  is  a secret  feeling  in  woman's  heart  that  she  is  in 
her  wrong  place ; that  it  is  she.  who  ought  to  worship  the  man, 
and  not  the  man  her ; and  when  she  becomes  properly  conscious 
of  her  destiny,  has  not  he  a right  to  be  conscious  of  his  ? If 
the  grey  hens  will  stand  round  in  the  mire  clucking  humble 
admiration,  who  can  blame  the  old  blackcock  for  dancing  and 
drumming  on  the  top  of  a moss  hag,  with  outspread  ‘wings  and 
flirting  tail,  glorious  and  self-glorifying  ? He  is  a splendid  fel- 
low ; and  he  was  made  splendid  for  some  purpose,  surely  'l  Why 
did  Hature  give  him  his  steel-blue  coat,  and  his  crimson  crest, 
but  for  the  very  same  purpose  that  she  gave  Mr.  A * * * his 
intellect — to  he  admired  by  the  other  sex'?  And  if  young 
damsels,  overflowing  with  sentiment  and  Ruskinism,  will  crowd 
round  him,  ask  his  opinion  of  this  hook  and  that  picture, 
treasure  his  bon-mots,  beg  for  his  autograph,  looking  all  the 
while  the  praise  which  they  do  not  speak  (though  they  speak  a 
good  deal  of  it),  and  when  they  go  home  write  letters  to  him  on 
matters  about  which  in  old  times  girls  used  to  ask  only  their 
mothers ; — who  can  blame  him  if  he  finds  the  little  wife  at 
home  a very  uninteresting  body,  whose  head  is  so  full  of  petty 
cares  and  gossip,  that  he  and  all  his  talents  are  quite  unappre- 
ciated ? Les  femmes  incomprises  of  France  used  to  (perhaps  do 
now)  form  a class  of  married  ladies,  whose  sorrows  were  espe- 
cially dear  to  the  novelists,  male  or  female ; hut  what  are  their 
woes  compared  to  those  of  Vhomme  incompris  ? What  higher 
vocation  for  a young  maiden  than  to  comfort  the  martyr  during 
his  agonies  ? And,  most  of  all,  where  the  sufferer  is  not  merely 
a genius,  but  a saint ; persecuted,  perhaps,  abroad  by  vulgar 
tradesmen  and  Philistine  bishops,  and  snubbed  at  home  by  a 
stupid  wife,  who  is  quite  unable  to  appreciate  his  magnificent 
projects  for  regenerating  all  heaven  and  earth ; and  only,  hum- 
drum, practical  creature  that  she  is,  tries  to  do  justly,  and  love 
mercy,  and  walk  humbly  with  her  God  h Ply  to  his  help,  all 
pious  maidens,  and  pour  into  the  wounded  heart  of  the  holy 


L' HOMME  INCOMPRIS. 


207 


man  the  healing  balm  of  self-conceit ; cover  his  table  with  con- 
fidential letters,  choose  him  as  your  father-confessor,  and  lock 
yourself  up  alone  with  him  for  an  hour  or  two  every  week, 
while  the  wife  is  mending  his  shirts  upstairs. — True,  you  may 
break  the  stupid  wife’s  heart  by  year-long  misery,  as  she  slaves 
on,  bearing  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  of  which  you  never 
dream  ; keeping  the  wretched  man,  by  her  unassuming  good 
example,  from  making  a fool  of  himself  three  times  a week ; and 
sowing  the  seed  of  which  you  steal  the  fruit.  What  matter  ? 
If  your  immortal  soul  requires  it,  what  matter  what  it  costs  her 
carnal  heart  ? She  will  suffer  in  silence  ; at  least,  she  will  not  tell 
you.  You  think  she  does  not  understand  you.  Well ; — and  she 
thinks  in  return  that  you  do  not  understand  her,  and  her  married 
joys  and  sorrows,  and  her  five  children,  and  her  butcher’s  bills, 
and  her  long  agony  of  fear  for  the  husband  of  whom  she  is  ten 
times  more  proud  than  you  could  be ; for  whom  she  has  slaved 
for  years ; whose  defects  she  has  tried  to  cure,  while  she  cured 
her  own ; for  whom  she  would  die  to-morrow,  did  he  fall  into 
disgrace,  when  you  had  flounced  off  to  find  some  new  idol : and 
so  she  will  not  tell  you  : and  what  the  ear  heareth  not,  that  the 
heart  grieveth  not. — Go  on  and  prosper ! You  may,  too,  ruin 
ike  man’s  spiritual  state  by  vanity ; you  may  pamper  his  dis- 
content with  the  place  where  God  has  put  him,  till  he  ends  by 
flying  off  to  “ some  purer  Communion,”  and  taking  you  with 
him.  Never  mind.  He  is  a most  delightful  person,  and  his 
intercourse  is  so  improving.  Why  were  sweet  things  made,  but 
to  be  eaten  ? Go  on  and  prosper. 

Ah,  young  ladies,  if  some  people  had  (as  it  is  perhaps  well  for 
them  that  they  have  not)  the  ordering  of  this  same  British 
nation,  they  would  certainly  follow  your  example,  and  try  to 
restore  various  ancient  institutions.  And  first  among  them 
would  be  that  very  ancient  institution  of  the  cucking-stool ; to 
be  employed  however,  not  as  of  old,  against  married  scolds  (for 
whom  those  who  have  been  behind  the  scenes  have  all  respect 
and  sympathy),  but  against  unmarried  prophetesses,  who,  under 
whatsoever  high  pretence  of  art  or  religion,  flirt  with  their  neigh- 
bours’ husbands,  be  they  parson  or  poet. 

Not,  be  it  understood,  that  Valencia  had  the  least  suspicion 
that  Elsley  considered  himself  “ incompris.”  If  he  had  hinted 
the  notion  to  her,  she  would  have  resented  it  as  an  insult  to  the 
St.  Justs  in  general,  and  to  her  sister  in  particular ; and  would 
have  said  something  to  him  in  her  off-hand  way,  the  like  whereof 
he  had  seldom  heard,  even  from  adverse  reviewers. 

Elsley  himself  soon  divined  enough  of  her  character  to  see  that 
he  must  keep  his  sorrows  to  himself,  if  he  wished  for  Valencia’s 
good  opinion  ; and  soon, — so  easily  does  a vain  man  lend  himself 


208 


i/homme  incompris. 


to  .meanness, — lie  found  himself  trying  to  please  Valencia,  by 
praising  to  her  the  very  woman  with  whom  he  was  discontented. 
He  felt  shocked  and  ashamed  when  first  his  own  baseness  flashed 
across  him : hut  the  bait  was  too  pleasant  to  he  left  easily : and, 
after  all,  he  was  trying  to  say  to  his  guest  what  he  knew  his 
guest  would  like ; and  what  was  that  but  following  those  very 
rules  of  good  society,  for  breaking  which  Lucia  was  always  calling 
him  gauche  and  morose  ? So  he  actually  quieted  his  own  con- 
science by  the  fancy  that  he  was  bound  to  be  civil,  and  to  keep 
up  appearances,  “ even  for  Lucia’s  sake,”  said  the  self-deceiver  to 
himself.  And  thus  the  mischief  was  done;  and  the  breach 
between  Lucia  and  her  husband,  which  had  been  somewhat 
bridged  over  during  the  last  month  or  two,  opened  more  wide 
than  ever,  without  a suspicion  on  Valencia’s  part  that  she  was 
doing  all  she  could  to  break  her  sister’s  heart. 

She,  meanwhile,  had  plenty  of  reasons  which  justified  her  new 
intimacy  to  herself.  How  could  she  better  please  Lucia  ? How 
better  show  that  bygones  were  to  be  bygones,  and  that  Elsley 
was  henceforth  to  be  considered  as  one  of  the  family,  than  by 
being  as  intimate  as  possible  with  him?  What  matter  how 
intimate?  For,  after  all,  he  was  only  a brother,  and  she  his 
sister. 

She  had  law  on  her  side  in  that  last  argument,  as  well  as  love 
of  amusement,  Whether  she  had  either  common  sense  or  Scrip 
ture,  is  a very  different  question. 

Poor  Lucia,  too,  tried  to  make  the  best  of  the  matter ; and  to 
take  the  new  intimacy  as  Valencia  would  have  had  her  take  it, 
in  the  light  of  a compliment  to  herself ; and  so,  in  her  pride,  she 
said  to  Valencia,  and  told  her  that  she  should  love  her  for  ever 
for  her  kindness  to  Elsley,  while  her  heart  was  ready  to  burst. 

But  ere  the  fortnight  was  over  the  Nemesis  had  come,  and 
Lucia,  woman  as  she  was,  could  not  repress  a thrill  of  malicious 
joy,  even  though  Elsley  became  more  intolerable  than  ever  at 
the  change. 

What  was  the  Nemesis,  then  ? 

Simply  that  this  naughty  Miss  St.  Just  began  to  smile  upon 
Frank  Headley  the  curate,  even  as  she  had  smiled  upon  Elsley 
Vavasour. 

It  was  very  naughty;  but  she  had* her  excuses.  She  had 
found  Elsley  out ; and  it  was  well  for  both  of  them  that  she  had 
done  so.  Already,  upon  the  strength  of  their  supposed  relation- 
ship, she  had  allowed  him  to  talk  a great  deal  more  nonsense  to 
her, — harmless  perhaps,  but  nonsense  still, — than  she  would 
have  listened  to  from  any  other  man ; and  it  was  well  for  both 
of  them  that  Elsley  was  a man  without  self-control,  who  began 
to  show  the  weak  side  of  his  character  freely  enough,  as  soon  as 


l’homme  ixcompris. 


209 


he  became  at  ease  with  his  companion,  and  excited  by  conversa- 
tion. Valencia  quickly  saw  that  he  was  vain  as  a peacock,  and 
weak  enough  to  be  led  by  her  in  any  and  every  direction,  when 
she  chose  to  work  on  his  vanity.  And  she  despised  him  accord- 
ingly, and  suspected,  too,  that  her  sister  could  not  be  very  happy 
with  such  a man. 

hTone  are  more  quick  than  sisters-in-law  to  see  faults  in  the 
brother-in-law,  when  once  they  have  begun  to  look  for  them ; 
and  Valencia  soon  remarked  that  Elsley  showed  Lucia  no  petits 
soins , while  he  was  ready  enough  to  show  them  to  her ; that  he 
took  no  real  trouble  about  his  children,  or  about  anything  else ; 
and  twenty  more  faults,  which  she  might  have  perceived  in  the 
first  two  days  of  her  visit,  if  she  had  not  been  in  such  a hurry 
to  amuse  herself.  But  she  was  too  delicate  to  ask  Lucia  the 
truth,  and  contented  herself  with  watching  all  parties  closely, 
and  in  amusing  herself  meanwhile — for  amusement  she  must 
have — in 

“ Breaking  a country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  she  went  to  town.” 

She  had  met  Frank  several  times  about  the  parish  and  in  the 
schools,  and  had  been  struck  at  once  with  his  grace  and  high 
breeding,  and  with  that  air  of  melancholy  which  is  always 
interesting  in  a true  woman’s  eyes.  She  had  seen,  too,  that 
Elsley  tried  to  avoid  him,  naturally  enough  not  wishing  an  in- 
trusion on  their  pleasant  tetes-a-tete.  Whereon,  half  to  spite 
Elsley,  and  half  to  show  her  own  right  to  chat  with  whom  she 
chose,  she  made  Lucia  ask  Erank  to  tea ; and  next  contrived  to 
go  to  the  school  when  he  was  teaching  there,  and  to  make  Elsley 
ask  him  to  walk  with  them ; and  all  the  more,  because  she  had 
discovered  that  Elsley  had  discontinued  his  walks  with  Erank, 
as  soon  as  she  had  appeared  at  Penal-va. 

Lucia  was  not  sorry  to  countenance  her  in  her  naughtiness;  it 
was  a comfort  to  her  to  have  a fourth  person  in  tlr  room  at 
times,  and  thus  to  compel  Elsley  and  Valencia  to  think  of  some- 
thing beside  each  other ; and  when  she  saw  her  sister  gradually 
transferring  her  favours  from  the  married  to  the  unmarried 
victim,  she  would  have  been  more  than  woman  if  she  had  not 
rejoiced  thereat.  Only,  she  began  soon  to  be  afraid  for  Erank, 
and  at  last  told  Valencia  so. 

“ Do  take  care  that  you  do  not  break  his  heart !” 

“My  dear!  You  forget  that  I sit  under  Mr.  O’Blareaway, 
and  am  to  him  as  a heathen  and  a publican.  Eresh  from  St. 
!Nepomuc’s  as  he  is,  he  would  as  soon  think  of  falling  in  love 
with  an  6 Oirish  Prodestant,’  as  with  a malignant  and  a turbaned 
Turk.  Besides,  my  dear,  if  the  mischief  is  going  to  be  done,  it’s 
done  already.” 


210 


L* HOMME  INCOMPRIS. 


“ I dare  say  it  is,  you  naughty  beautiful  thing.  If  any  body 
is  goose  enough  to  fall  in  love  with  you,  hell  be  also  goose 
enough,  I don’t  doubt,  to  do  so  at  first  sight.  There,  don’t  look 
perpetually  in  that  glass  : but  take  care  ! ” 

“ What  use  h If  it  is  going  to  happen  at  all,  I say,  it  has 
happened  already;  so  I shall  just  please  myself,  as  usual.” 

And  it  had  happened : and  poor  Trank  had  been,  ever  since 
the  first  day  he  saw  Valencia,  over  head  and  ears  in  love.  His 
time  had  come,  and  there  was  no  escaping  his  fate. 

But  to  escape  he  tried.  Convinced,  with  many  good  men  of 
all  ages  and  creeds,  that  a celibate  life  was  the  fittest  one  for  a 
clergyman,  he  had  fled  from  St.  Hepomuc’s  into  the  wilderness 
to  avoid  temptation,  and  beheld  at  his  cell- door  a fairer  fiend 
than  ever  came  to  St.  Dunstan.  A fairer  fiend,  no  doubt ; for 
St.  Dunstan’s  imagination  created  his  temptress  for  him,  but 
Valencia  was  a reality  : and  fact  and  nature  may  be  safely  backed 
to  produce  something  more  charming  than  any  monk’s  brain  can 
do.  One  questions  whether  St.  Dunstan’s  apparition  was  not 
something  as  coarse  as  his  own  mind,  clever  though  that  mind 
was.  At  least,  he  would  never  have  had  the  heart  to  apply  the 
hot  tongs  to  such  a nose  as  Valencia’s,  but  at  most  have  bowed 
her  out  pittyingly,  as  Trank  tried  to  bow  out  Valencia  from  the 
sacred  place  of  his  heart,  but  failed. 

Hard  he  tried,  and  humbly  too.  He  had  no  proud  contempt 
for  married  parsons.  He  was  ready  enough  to  confess,  that  he, 
too,  might  be  weak  in  that  respect,  as  in  a hundred  others.  He 
conceived  that  he  had  no  reason,  from  his  own  inner  life,  to 
believe  himself  worthy  of  any  higher  vocation — proving  his  own 
real  nobleness  of  soul  by  that  very  humility.  He  had  rather 
not  marry.  He  might  do  so  some  day  : but  he  would  sacrifice 
much  to  avoid  the  necessity.  If  he  was  weak,  he  would  use 
what  strength  he  had  to  the  uttermost  ere  he  yielded.  And  all 
the  more,  because  he  felt,  and  reasonably  enough,  that  Valencia 
was  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  make  a parson’s  wife.  He 
had  his  ideal  of  what  such  a wife  should  be,  if  she  were  to  be 
allowed  to  exist  at  all — the  same  ideal  which  Mr.  Paget  has 
drawn  in  his  charming  little  book  (would  that  all  parsons  wives 
would  read  and  perpend),  the  “ Owlet  of  Owlstone  Tdge.”  But 
Valencia  would  surely  not  make  a Beatrice.  Beautiful  she  was, 
glorious,  loveable,  but  not  the  helpmeet  whom  he  needed.  And 
he  fought  against  the  new  dream  like  a brave  man.  He  fasted, 
he  wept,  he  prayed : but  his  prayers  seemed  not  to  be  heard 
Valencia  seemed  to  have  enthroned  herself,  a true  Venus  victrix, 
in  the  centre  of  his  heart,  and  would  not  be  dispossessed.  He 
tried  to  avoid  seeing  her  : but  even  for  that  he  had  not  strength  : 
he  went  again  and  again  when  asked,  only  to  come  home  more 


i/homme  incompris. 


2 11 


I miserable  each,  time,  as  fierce  against  himself  and  liis  own  weak- 
ness as  if  he  had  given  way  to  wine  or  to  oaths.  In  vain,  too, 

I he  represented  to  himself  the  ridiculous  hopelessness  of  his 
I passion ; the  impossibility  of  the  London  beauty  ever  stooping  to 
marry  the  poor  country  curate.  Fancies  would  come  in,  how 
such  things,  strange  as  they  might  seem,  had  happened  already ; 

| might  happen  again.  It  was  a class  of  marriages  for  which  he 
had  always  felt  a strong  dislike,  even  suspicion  and  contempt ; 
and  though  he  was  far  more  fitted,  in  family  as  well  as  personal 
excellence,  for  such  a match,  than  three  out  of  four  who  make 
them,  yet  he  shrunk  with  disgust  from  the  notion  of  being  him- 
; self  classed  at  last  among  the  match-making  parsons.  Whether 
there  was  “ carnal  pride  ” or  not  in  that  last  thought,  his  soul  so 
i loathed  it,  that  he  would  gladly  have  thrown  up  his  cure  at 
Aberalva ; and  would  have  done  so  actually,  but  for  one  word 
which  Tom  Thurnall  had  spoken  to  him,  and  that  was— 
Cholera. 

That  the  cholera  might  come ; that  it  probably  would  come,  in 
the  course  of  the  next  two  months,  was  news  to  him  which  was 
enough  to  keep  him  at  his  post,  let  what  would  be  the  conse- 
quence. And  gradually  he  began  to  see  a way  out  of  his 
difficulty- — and  a very  simple  one  ; and  that  was,  to  die. 

“ That  is  the  solution  after  all,”  said  he.  “I  am  not  strong 
enough  for  God’s  work  : but  I will  not  shrink  from  it,  if  I 
can  help.  If  I cannot  master  it,  let  it  kill  me ; so  at  least  I 
may  have  peace.  I have  failed  utterly  here  : all  my  grand  plans 
have  crumbled  to  ashes  between  my  fingers.  I find  myself  a 
cumberer  of  the  ground,  where  I fancied  that  I was  going  forth 
like  a very  Michael — fool  that  I was  ! — leader  of  the  armies  of 
heaven.  And  now,  in  the  one  remaining  point  on  which  I 
thought  myself  strong,  I find  myself  weakest  of  all.  Useless 
and  helpless  ! I have  one  chance  left,  one  chance  to  show  these 
poor  souls  that  I really  love  them,  really  wish  their  good — 
Selfish  that  I am  ! What  matter  whether  I do  show  it  or  not  ? 
What  need  to  justify  myself  to  them  % Self,  self,  creeping  in 
everywhere  ! I shall  begin  next,  I suppose,  longing  for  the 
; cholera  to  come,  that  I may  show  off  myself  in  it,  and  make 
spiritual  capital  out  of  their  dying  agonies  ! Ah  me  ! that  it 
were  all  over  ! — That  this  cholera,  if  it  is  to  come,  would  wipe 
out  of  this  head  what  I verily  believe  nothing  but  death  will 
do ! ” And  therewith  Frank  laid  his  head  on  the  table,  and 
i cried  till  he  could  cry  no  more. 

It  was  not  over  manly  : but  he  was  weakened  with  overwork 
and  sorrow  : and,  on  the  whole,  it  was  perhaps  the  best  thing 
He  could  do  ; for  he  fell  asleep^ there,  with  his  head  on  the  table, 
and  did  not  wake  till  the  dawn  blazed  through  his  open  window. 


2 1 2 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 

Did  yon  ever,  in  a feverish  dream,  climb  a mountain  which 
grew  higher  and  higher  as  yon  climbed ; and  scramble  through 
passages  which  changed  perpetually  before  you,  and  up  and  down 
break-neck  stairs  which  broke  off  perpetually  behind  you  ? Did 
you  ever  spend  the  whole  night,  foot  in  stirrup,  mounting  that 
phantom  hunter  which  never  gets  mounted,  or,  if  he  does,  turns 
into  a pen  between  your  knees  ; or  in  going  to  fish  that  phantom 
stream  which  never  gets  fished  h Did  you  ever,  late  for  that 
mysterious  dinner-party  in  some  enchanted  castle,  wander  dis- 
consolately, in  unaccountable  rags  and  dirt,  in  search  of  that 
phantom  carpet-bag  which  never  gets  found  ? Did  you  ever 
“ realize  ” to  yourself  the  sieve  of  the  Danaides,  the  stone  of 
Sisyphus,  the  wheel  of  Ixion ; the  pleasure  of  shearing  that 
domestic  animal  who  (according  to  the  experience  of  a very 
ancient  observer  of  nature)  produces  more  cry  than  wool;  the 
perambulation  of  that  Irishman’s  model  bog,  where  you  slip 
two  steps  backward  for  one  forward,  and  must,  therefore,  in 
order  to  progress  at  all,  turn  your  face  homeward,  and  progress  as 
a pig  does  into  a steamer,  by  going  the  opposite  way  h Were  you 
ever  condemned  to  spin  ropes  of  sand  to  all  eternity,  like  Tregeagle 
the  wrecker ; or  to  extract  the  cube  roots  of  a million  or  two  of 
hopeless  surds,  like  the  mad  mathematician ; or  last,  and  worst 
of  all,  to  work  the  Nuisances  Removal  Act  ] Then  you  can 
enter,  as  a man  and  a brother,  into  the  sorrows  of  Tom  Thurnall, 
in  the  months  of  June  and  July,  1854. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind,  for  certain  good  reasons  of  his  own, 
that  the  cholera  ought  to  visit  Aberalva  in  the  course  of  the 
summer ; and,  of  course,  tried  his  best  to  persuade  people  to  get 
ready  for  their  ugly  visitor : but  in  vain.  The  cholera  come 
there  ? Why,  it  never  had  come  yet,  which  signified,  when  he 
inquired  a little  more  closely,  that  there  had  been  only  one  or 
two  doubtful  cases  in  1837,  and  five  or  six  in  1849.  In  vain  he 
answered,  “ Very  well;  and  is  not  that  a proof  that  the  causes 
of  cholera  are  increasing  here  ? If  you  had  one  case  the  first 
time,  and  five  times  as  many  the  next,  by  the  same  rule  you  will 
have  five  times  as  many  more  if  it  comes  this  summer.” 

“ Nonsense  ! Aberalva  was  the  healthiest  town  on  the  coast.” 

“Well  but,”  would  Tom  say,  “in  the  census  before  last,  you 
had.  a population  of  1,300  in  112  houses,  and  that  was  close 
packing  enough,  in  all  conscience  : and  in  the  last  census  I 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BaY. 


213 


find  you  had  a population  of  over  1,400,  which  must  have 
increased  since ; and  there  are  eight  or  nine  old  houses  in  the 
town  pulled  down,  or  turned  into  stores  ; so  you  are  more  closely 
packed  than  ever.  And  mind,  it  may  seem  no  very  great  differ- 
ence ; hut  it  is  the  last  drop  that  fills  the  cup.” 

What  had  that  to  do  with  cholera  ? And  more  than  one  gave 
him  to  understand  that  he  must  be  either  a very  silly  or  a very 
impertinent  person,  to  go  poking  into  how  many  houses  there 
were  in  the  town,  and  how  many  people  lived  in  each.  Tardrew, 
the  steward,  indeed,  said  openly,  that  Mr.  Thurnall  was  making 
disturbance  enough  in  people’s  property  up  at  Pentremochyn, 
without  bothering  himself  with  Aberalva  too.  He  had  no 
opinion  of  people  who  had  a finger  in  everybody’s  pie.  Whom 
Tom  tried  to  soothe  with  honeyed  words,  knowing  him  to  be  of 
the  original  British  bulldog  breed,  which,  once  stroked  against 
the  hair,  shows  his  teeth  at  you  for  ever  afterwards. 

But  staunch  was  Tardrew,  unfortunately  on  the  wrong  side ; 
and  backed  by  the  collective  ignorance,  pride,  laziness,  and 
superstition  of  Aberalva,  showed  to  his  new  assailant  that  terrible 
front  of  stupidity,  against  which,  says  Schiller,  “ the  gods  them- 
selves fight  in  vain.” 

“ Does  he  think  we  was  all  fools  afore  he  came  here  1 ” 

That  was  the  rallying  cry  of  the  Conservative  party,  wor- 
shippers of  Baalzebub,  god  of  flies,  and  of  that  (so  say  Syrian 
scholars)  from  which  flies  are  bred.  And,  indeed,  there  were 
excuses  for  them,  on  the  Yankee  ground,  that  “ there’s  a deal 
of  human  natur’  in  man.”  It  is  hard  to  human  nature  to  make 
all  the  humiliating  confessions  which  must  precede  sanitary 
repentance ; to  say,  “ I have  been  a very  nasty,  dirty  fellow. 
I have  lived  contented  in  evil  smells,  till  I care  for  them  no 
more  than  my  pig  does.  I have  refused  to  understand  Nature’s 
broadest  hints,  that  anything  which  is  so  disagreeable  is  not 
meant  to  be  left  about.  I have  probably  been  more  or  less 
the  cause  of  half  my  own  illnesses,  and  of  three-fourths  of 
the  illness  of  my  children ; for  aught  I know,  it  is  very  much 
my  fault  that  my  own  baby  has  died  of  scarlatina,  and  two 
or  three  of  my  tenants  of  typhus.  No,  hang  it  ! that’s  too 
much  to  make  any  man  confess  to  ! I’ll  prove  my  innocence 
by  not  reforming  ! ” So  sanitary  reform  is  thrust  out  of  sight, 
simply  because  its  necessity  is  too  humiliating  to  the  pride 
| of  all,  too  frightful  to  the  consciences  of  many. 

Tom  went  to  Trebooze. 

“ Mr.  Trebooze,  you  are  a man  of  position  in  the  county,  and 
own  some  houses  in  Aberalva.  Don’t  you  think  you  could  use 
your  influence  in  this  matter  ? ” 

•'  Own  some  houses  1 Yes,” — and  Mr.  Trebooze  consigned 


214 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


the  said  cottages  to  a variety  of  unmentionable  places ; u cost 
me  more  in  rates  than  they  bring  in  in  rent,  even  if  I get  the 
rent  paid.  I should  like  to  get  a six-pounder,  and  blow  the 
whole  lot  into  the  sea.  Cholera  coming,  eh?  D’ye  think  it 
will  be  there  before  Michaelmas  ? ” 

I do.” 

“ Pity  I can’t  clear  ’em  out  before  Michaelmas.  Else  I’d 
have  ejected  the  lot,  and  pulled  the  houses  down.” 

“ I think  something  should  be  done  meanwhile,  though,  to- 
wards cleansing  them.” 

“ * * * Let  ’em  cleanse  them  themselves ! Soap’s  cheap 
enough  with  your  * * * free  trade,  ain’t  it  ? JSTo,  Sir  ! That 
sort  of  talk  will  do  well  enough  for  my  Lord  Minchampstead, 
Sir,  the  old  money-lending  Jew ! * * * but  gentlemen,  Sir, 
gentlemen,  that  are  half-ruined  with  free  trade,  and  your  Whig 
(policy,  Sir,  you  must  give  ’em  back  their  rights  before  they 
'■can  afford  to  throw  away  their  money  on  cottages.  Cottages, 
indeed ! * * * upstart  of  a cotton-spinner,  coming  down  here, 
buying  the  land  over  our  heads,"  and  pretends  to  show  us  how 
to  manage  our  estates ; old  families  that  have  been  in  the 
county  this  four  hundred  years,  with  the  finest  peasantry  in 
the  world  ready  to  die  for  them,  Sir,  till  these  new  revolutionary 
doctrines  came  in — Pride  and  purse-proud  conceit,  just  to  show 
off  his  money  ! What  do  they  want  with  better  cottages  than 
their  fathers  had  ? Only  put  notions  into  their  heads,  raise  ’em 
-above  their  station ; more  they  have,  more  they’ll  want.  * * * 
Sir,  make  chartists  of  ’em  all  before  he’s  done  ! I’ll  tell  you 
what,  Sir,” — and  Mr.  Trebooze  attempted  a dignified  and  dog- 
matic tone — “I  never  told  it  you  before,  because  you  were  my 
very  good  friend,  Sir  : but  my  opinion  is,  Sir,  that  by  what 
you’re  doing  up  at  Pentremochyn,  you’re  just  spreading  chartism 
—chartism,  Sir ! Of  course  I know  nothing.  Of  course  I’m 
nobody,  in  these  days  : but  that’s  my  opinion,  Sir,  and  you’ve 
got  it ! ” 

By  which  motion  Tom  took  little.  Mighty  is  envy  always,  i 
and  mighty  ignorance  : but  you  become  aware  of  their  truly  i 
Titanic  grandeur  only  when  you  attempt  to  touch  their  owner’s  ) 
pocket.  J 

Tom  tried  old  Heale  : but  took  as  little  in  that  quarter. 
Heale  had  heard  of  sanitary  reform,  of  course;  but  he  knew 
nothing  about  it,  and  gave  a general  assent  to  Tom’s  doctrines, 
for  fear  of  exposing  his  own  ignorance  : acting  on  them  was 
a very  different  matter.  It  is  always  hard  for  an  old  medical 
^aan  to  confess  that  anything  has  been  discovered  since  the 
days  of  his  youth ; and  beside,  there  were  other  reasons  behind, 
which  Heale  tried  to  avoid  giving;  and  therefore  fenced  off, 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY.  215 

and  fenced  off,  till,  pressed  hard  by  Tom,  wrath  came  forth, 
and  truth  with  it. 

“ And  what  he  you  thinking  of,  Sir,  to  expect  me  to  offend 
all  my  best  patients  h and  not  one  of  ’em  but  rents  some  two 
cottages,  some  a dozen.  And  what’ll  they  say  to  me  if  I go 
a routing  and  rookling  in  their  drains,  like  an  old  sow  by  the 
wayside,  beside  putting  ’em  to  all  manner  of  expense  ? And  all 
on  the  chance  of  this  cholera  coming,  which  I have  no  faith  in, 
nor  in  this  new-fangled  sanitary  reform  neither,  which  is  all 
a dodge  for  a lot  of  young  Government  puppies  to  fill  their 
pockets,  and  rule  and  ride  over  us  : and  my  opinion  always 
was  with  the  Bible,  that  ’tis  jidgment,  Sir,  a jidgment  of  God, 
and  we  can’t  escape  His  holy  will,  and  that’s  the  plain  truth 
of  it.” 

Tom  made  no  answer  to  that  latter  argument.  He  had  heard 
that  “ ’tis  jidgment  ” from  every  mouth  during  the  last  few 
days;  and  had  mortally  offended  the  Brianite  preacher  that 
very  morning,  by  answering  his  “ ’tis  jidgment  ” with — 

“ But,  my  good  Sir  ! the  Bible,  I thought,  says  that  Aaron 
stayed  the  plague  among  the  Israelites,  and  David  the  one  at 
Jerusalem.” 

“ Sir,  those  was  miracles,  Sir ! and  they  was  under  the  Law, 
Sir,  and  we’m  under  the  Gospel,  you’ll  be  pleased  to  remember.” 
“ Humph  ! ” said  Tom,  “ then,  by  your  showing,  they  were 
better  off  under  the  Law  than  we  are  now,  if  they  could  have 
their  plagues  stopped  by  miracles ; and  we  cannot  have  ours 
stopped  at  all.” 

“ Sir,  be  you  an  infidel  ? ” 

To  which  there  was  no  answer  to  be  made. 

In  this  case,  Tom  answered  Heale  with — 

“ But,  my  dear  Sir,  if  you  don’t  like  (as  is  reasonable  enough) 
to  take  the  responsibility  on  yourself,  why  not  go  to  the  Board 
of  Guardians,  and  get  them  to  put  the  act  in  force  h ” 

“ Boord,  Sir  ? and  do  you  know  so  little  of  Boords  as  tnat  h 
Why,  there  ain’t  one  of  them  but  owns  cottages  themselves,  and 
it’s  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth — ” 

“ Your  place  as  medical  officer  is  just  worth  nothing,  as  you 
know;  you’ll  have  been  out  of  pocket  by  it  seven  oi  eight 
pounds  this  year,  even  if  no  cholera  comes.” 

Tom  knew  the  whole  state  of  the  case;  but  he  liked  tormenting 
Heale  now  and  then. 

“ Well,  Sir  ! but  if  I get  turned  out  next  year,  in  steps  that 
Drew  over  at  Carcarrow  Churchtown  into  my  district,  and  into 
the  best  of  my  practice,  too.  I wonder  what  sort  of  a Poor 
Law  district  you  were  medical  officer  of,  if  you  don’t  know  yet 
that  that’s  why  we  take  to  the  poor.” 


216 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAT. 


“ My  dear  Sir,  I know  it,  and  a good  deal  more  beside.” 

“ Then  why  go  bothering  me  this  way  ? ” 

“ Why,”  said  Tom,  “it’s  pleasant  to  have  old  notions  confirmed 
as  often  as  possible — 

4 Life  is  a jest,  and  all  things  show  it ; 

I thought  so  once,  hut  now  I know  it.  * 

What  an  ass  the  fellow  must  have  been  who  had  that  put  on 
his  tombstone,  not  to  have  found  it  out  many  a year  before  he 
died  ! ” 

He  went  next  to  Headley  the  Curate,  and  took  little  by  that 
move ; though  more  than  by  any  other. 

For  Frank  already  believed  his  doctrines,  as  an  educated 
London  parson  of  course  would  ; was  shocked  to  hear  that  they 
were  likely  to  become  fact  so  soon  and  so  fearfully  ; offered  to 
do  all  he  could  : but  confessed  that  he  could  do  nothing. 

“ I have  been  hinting  to  them,  ever  since  I came,  improve- 
ments in  cleanliness,  in  ventilation,  and  so  forth  : but  I have 
been  utterly  unheeded  : and  bully  me  as  you  will,  Doctor,  about 
my  cramming  doctrines  down  their  throats,  and  roaring  like  a 
Pope’s  bull,  I assure  you  that,  on  sanitary  reform,  my  roaring 
was  as  of  a sucking  dove,  and  ought  to  have  prevailed,  if  soft 
persuasion  can.” 

, “You  were  a dove  where  you  ought  to  have  been  a bull,  and 
a bull  where  you  ought  to  have  been  a dove.  But  roar  now,  if 
ever  you  roared,  in  the  pulpit  and  out.  Why  not  preach  to  them 
on  it  next  Sunday  ? ” 

“ Well,  I’d  give  a lecture  gladly,  if  I could  get  any  one  to 
come  and  hear  it;  but  that  you  could  do  better  than  me.” 

“ I’ll  lecture  them  myself,  and  show  them  bogies,  if  my 
quarter-inch  will  do  its  work.  If  they  want  seeing  to  believe, 
see  they  shall ; I have  half-a-dozen  specimens  of  water  already 
which  will  astonish  them.  Let  me  lecture,  you  must  preach.” 

“ You  must  know,  that  there  is  a feeling, — you  would  call  it  a 
prejudice, — against  introducing  such  purely  secular  subjects  into 
the  pulpit.” 

Tom  gave  a long  whistle. 

“ Pardon  me,  Mr.  Headley ; you  are  a man  of  sense ; and  I 
can  speak  to  you  as  one  human  being  to  another,  which  I have 
seldom  been  able  to  do  with  your  respected  cloth.” 

“ Say  on  ; I shall  not  be  frightened.” 

“Well,  don’t  you  put  up  the  Ten  Commandments  in  your 
Church?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And  don’t  one  of  them  run  ; 4 Thou  shalt  not  kill/  ” 
"Well?” 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


217 


“ And  is  not  murder  a moral  offence — what  you  call  a sin  ? ” 

K Sans  doute.” 

u If  you  saw  your  parishioners  in  the  habit  of  cutting  each 
other’s  throats,  or  their  own,  shouldn’t  you  think  that  a matter 
spiritual  enough  to  be  a fit  subject  for  a little  of  the  drum 
ecclesiastic  ? ” 

“Well*” 

“ Well?  Ill ! There  are  your  parishioners  about  to  commit 
wholesale  murder  and  suicide,  and  is  that  a secular  question  * 
If  they  don’t  know  the  fact,  is  not  that  all  the  more  reason  for 
your  telling  them  of  it  ? You  pound  away,  as  I warned  you 
once,  at  the  sins  of  which  they  are  just  as  well  aware  as  you ; 
why  on  earth  do  you  hold  your  tongue  about  the  sins  of  which 
they  are  not  aware?  You  tell  us  every  Sunday  that  we  do 
Heaven  only  knows  how  many  more  wrong  things  than  we 
dream  of.  Tell  it  us  again  now.  Don’t  strain  at  gnats  like 
want  of  faith  and  resignation,  and  swallow  such  a camel  as 
twenty  or  thirty  deaths.  It’s  no  concern  of  mine  ; I’ve  seen 
plenty  of  people  murdered,  and  may  again:  I am  accustomed 
to  it ; but  if  it’s  not  your  concern,  what  on  earth  you  are  here 
for  is  more  than  I can  tell.” 

“You  are  right — you  are  right ; but  how  to  put  it  on  religious 
grounds — ” 

Tom  whistled  again. 

“ If  your  doctrines  cannot  be  made  to  fit  such  plain  matters 
as  twenty  deaths,  tant  pis  pour  eux.  If  they  have  nothing  to 
say  on  such  scientific  facts,  why,  the  facts  must  take  care  of 
themselves,  and  the  doctrines  may,  for  aught  I care,  go  and — 
But  I won’t  be  really  rude.  Only  think  over  the  matter  : if 
you  are  God’s  minister,  you  ought  to  have  something  to  say 
about  God’s  view  of  a fact  which  certainly  involves  the  lives 
of  his  creatures,  not  by  twos  and  threes,  but  by  tens  of 
thousands.” 

So  Frank  went  home,  and  thought  it  through  ; and  went  once 
and  again  to  Thurnall,  and  condescended  to  ask  his  opinion  of 
what  he  had  said,  and  whether  he  said  ill  or  well.  What  Thur- 
nall answered  was — “Whether  that’s  sound  Church  doctrine  is 
your  business ; but  if  it  be,  I’ll  say,  with  the  man  there  in  the 
Acts — what  was  his  name  ? — 4 Almost  thou  persuadest  me  to  be 
a Christian.’  ” 

44  Would  God  that  you  were  one  ! for  you  would  make  a right 
I good  one.” 

44  Humph ! at  least  you  see  what  you  can  do,  if  you’ll  only 
face  fact  as  it  stands,  and  talk  about  the  realities  of  life.  I’ll 
puff  your  sermon  beforehand,  I assure  you,  and  bring  all  I can 
to  hear  it.” 


218 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


So  Frank  preached  a noble  sermon,  most  rational,  and  most 
spiritual  withal ; but  he,  too,  like  his  tutor,  took  little  by  his 
motion. 

All  the  present  fruit  upon  which  he  had  to  congratulate  him- 
self  was,  that  the  Brianite  preacher  denounced  him  in  chapel 
next  Sunday  as  a German  Rationalist,  who  impiously  pretended 
to  explain  away  the  Lord’s  visitation  into  a carnal  matter  of 
drains,  and  pipes,  and  gases,  and  such  like  ; and  that  his  rival 
of  another  denomination,  who  was  a fanatic  on  the  teetotal 
question,  denounced  him  as  bitterly  for  supporting  the  cause  of 
drunkenness,  by  attributing  cholera  to  want  of  cleanliness,  while 
all  rational  people  knew  that  its  true  source  was  intemperance. 
Poor  Prank  ! he  had  preached  against  drunkenness  many  a time 
and  oft : but  because  he  would  not  add  a Mohammedan  eleventh 
commandment  to  those  ten  which  men  already  find  difficulty 
enough  in  keeping,  he  was  set  upon  at  once  by  a fanatic  whose 
game  it  was — as  it  is  that  of  too  many — to  snub  sanitary  reform, 
and  hinder  the  spread  of  plain  scientific  truth,  for  the  sake  of 
pushing  their  own  nostrum  for  all  human  ills. 

In  despair,  Tom  went  off  to  Plsley  Vavasour.  Would  he 
help  ? Would  he  join,  as  one  of  two  householders,  in  making  a 
representation  to  the  proper  authorities  ? 

Elsley  had  never  mixed  in  local  matters  : and  if  he  had,  he 
knew  nothing  of  how  to  manage  men,  or  to  read  an  Act  of  Par- 
liament ; so,  angry  as  Tom  was  inclined  to  be  with  him,  he 
found  it  useless  to  quarrel  with  a man  so  utterly  unpractical, 
who  would,  probably,  had  he  been  stirred  into  exertion,  have 
done  more  harm  than  good. 

“ Only  come  with  me,  and  satisfy  yourself  as  to  the  existence 
of  one  of  these  nuisances,  and  then  you  will  have  grounds  on 
which  to  go,”  said  Tom,  who  had  still  hopes  of  making  a cat’s- 
paw  of  Elsley,  and  by  his  power  over  him,  pulling  the  strings 
from  behind. 

Sorely  against  his  will,  Elsley  went,  saw,  and  smelt ; came 
home  again;  was  very  unwell;  and  was  visited  nightly  for  a 
week  after  by  that  most  disgusting  of  all  phantoms,  sanitary 
nightmare ; which  some  who  have  worked  in  the  foul  places  of 
the  earth  know  but  too  well.  Evidently  his  health  could  not 
stand  it.  There  was  no  work  to  be'' got  out  of  him  in  that 
direction. 

“Would  he  write,  then,  and  represent  matters  to  Lord  Scout- 
bush  1 ” 

How  could  he  ? He  did  not  know  the  man ; not  a line  had 
ever  been  exchanged  between  them.  Their  relations  were  so 
very  peculiar.  It  would  seem  sheer  impertinence  on  his  part  to 
interfere  with  the  management  of  Lord  Scoutbush’s  property, 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY.  219 

Really  there  was  a great  deal  to  he  said,  Tom  felt,  for  poor 
Elsley’s  dislike  of  meddling  in  that  quarter. 

“ Would  Mrs.  Vavasour  write,  then  h ” 

“ For  Heaven’s  sake  do  not  mention  it  to  her.  She  would  he 
so  terrified  about  the  children ; she  is  worn  out  with  anxiety 
already,” — and  so  forth. 

Tom  went  hack  to  Frank  Headley. 

“You  see  a good  deal  of  Miss  St.  Just.” 

“ I? — Ho — why  1 — what  ? ” said  poor  Frank,  blushing. 

“ Only  that  you  must  make  her  write  to  her  brother  about 
this  cholera.” 

“ My  dear  fellow,  it  is  such  a subject  for  a lady  to  meddle 
with.” 

“ It  has  no  scruple  in  meddling  with  ladies ; so  ladies  ought 
to  have  none  in  meddling  with  it.  You  must  do  it  as  delicately 
as  you  will : but  done  it  must  be  : it  is  our  only  chance.  Tell 
her  of  Tardrew’s  obstinacy,  or  Scoutbush  will  go  by  his  opinion ; 
and  tell  her  to  keep  the  secret  from  her  sister.” 

Frank  did  it,  and  well.  Valencia  was  horror-struck,  and  wrote. 

Scoutbush  was  away  at  sea,  nobody  knew  where ; and  a full 
fortnight  elapsed  before  an  answer  came. 

‘ 4 My  dear,  you  are  quite  mistaken  if  you  think  I can  do  any- 
thing. Hine- tenths  of  the  houses  in  Aberalva  are  not  in  my 
hands;  but  copyholds  and  long  leases,  over  which  I have  no 
power.  If  the  people  will  complain  to  me  of  any  given  nuisance, 
I’ll  right  it  if  I can ; and  if  the  doctor  wants  money,  and  sees 
any  ways  of  laying  it  out  well,  he  shah  have  what  he  wants, 
though  I am  very  high  in  Queer  Street  just  now,  ma’am,  having 
paid  your  bills  before  I left  town,  like  a good  brother  : but  I 
tell  you  again,  I have  no  more  power  than  you  have,  except  over 
a few  cottages,  and  Tardrew  assured  me,  three  weeks  ago,  that 
they  were  as  comfortable  as  they  ever  had  been.” 

So  Tardrew  had  forestalled  Thurnall  in  writing  to  the 
Viscount.  Well,  there  was  one  more  chance  to  be  tried. 

Tom  gave  his  lecture  in  the  school-room.  He  showed  them 
magnified  abominations  enough  to  frighten  all  the  children  into 
fits,  and  dilated  on  horrors  enough  to  spoil  all  appetites  : he 
proved  to  them  that,  though  they  had  the  finest  water  in  the 
world  all  over  the  town,  they  had  contrived  to  poison  almost 
every  drop  of  it ; he  waxed  eloquent,  witty,  sarcastic ; and  the 
net  result  was  a general  grumble. 

“ How  did  he  get  hold  of  all  the  specimens,  as  he  calls  them 
What  business  has  he  poking  his  nose  down  people’s  wells  and 
waterbutts  h ” 

But  an  unexpected  ally  arose  at  this  juncture,  in  the  Coast- 


220 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


guard  Lieutenant,  who,  being  valiant  after  his  evening’s  brandy- 
and-water,  rose  and  declared,  “ that  Dr.  Thurnall  was  a very 
clever  man ; that  by  what  he’d  seen  himself  in  the  West  Indies, 
it  was  all  as  true  as  gospel ; that  the  parish  might  have  the  cholera 
if  it  liked,” — and  here  a few  expletives  occurred, — 4 4 hut  that  he’d 
see  that  the  Coast-guard  houses  were  put  to  rights  at  once ; for 
he  would  not  have  the  lives  of  Her  Majesty’s  servants  endangered 
by  such  dirty  tricks,  not  fit  for  heathen  savages,”  &c.  &c. 

Tom  struck  while  the  iron  was  hot.  He  saw  that  the  great 
man’s  speech  had  produced  an  impression. 

44  Would  he,”  (so  he  asked  the  Lieutenant  privately,)  “ get  some 
one  to  join  him,  and  present  a few  of  these  nuisances  ?” 

He  would  do  anything  in  his  contempt  for  44  a lot  of  long-shore 
merchant- skippers  and  herringers,  who  went  about  calling  them- 
selves captains,  and  fancy  themselves,  Sir,  as  good  as  if  they  wore 
the  Queen’s  uniform !” 

44  Well,  then,  can’t  we  find  another  householder — some  cantan- 
kerous dog  who  don’t  mind  a row1?” 

Yes,  the  cantankerous  dog  was  found,  in  the  person  of  Mr. 
John  Penruddock,  coal-merchant,  who  had  quarrelled  with  Tar- 
drew,  because  Tardrew  said  he  gave  short  weight — which  he  very 
probably  did — and  had  quarrelled  also  with  Thomas  Beer,  senior, 
ship-builder,  about  right  of  passage  through  a back- yard. 

Mr.  Penruddock  suddenly  discovered  that  Mr.  Beer  kept  up  a 
dirt-heap  in  the  said  back-yard,  and  with  virtuous  indignation 
vowed  44  he’d  sarve  the  old  beggar  out  at  last.” 

So  far  so  good.  The  weapons  of  reason  and  righteousness 
having  failed,  Tom  felt  at  liberty  to  borrow  the  devil’s  tools. 
How  to  pack  a vestry,  and  to  nominate  a local  committee. 

The  vestry  was  packed ; the  committee  nominated  : of  course 
half  of  them  refused  to  act — they  44  didn’t  want  to  go  quarrelling 
with  their  neighbours.” 

Tom  explained  to  them  cunningly  and  delicately  that  they 
would  have  nothing  to  do ; that  one  or  two  (he  did  not  say  that 
he  was  the  one,  and  the  two  also)  would  do  all  the  work,  and 
bear  all  the  odium ; whereon  the  malcontents  subsided,  consider- 
ing it  likely  that,  after  all,  nothing  would  be  done. 

Some  may  fancy  that  matters  were  now  getting  somewhat 
settled.  Those  who  do  so  know  little  of  the  charming  machinery 
of  local  governments.  One  man  has  44  summat  to  say,” — utterly 
trrelevant.  Another  must  needs  answer  him  with  something 
equally  irrelevant ; a long  chatter  ensues,  in  spite  of  all  cries  to 
order  and  question.  Soon  one  and  another  gets  personal,  and 
temper  shows  here  and  there.  You  would  fancy  that  the  go- 
ahead  party  try  to  restore  order,  and  help  business  on.  Hot  in 
the  least.  They  have  begun  to  cool  a little.  They  are  a little 


TIIE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


221 


afraid  that  they  have  committed  themselves.  If  people  quarrel 
with  each  other,  perhaps  they  may  quarrel  with  them  too.  And 
they  begin  to  he  wonderfully  patient  and  impartial,  in  the  hope 
of  staving  off  the  evil  day,  and  finding  some  excuse  for  doing 
nothing  after  all.  “Hear  ’mun  out!”  . . . “Vair  and  zoft,  let 
ev’ry  man  ha’  his  zay  !”...“  There’s  vary  gude  rason  in  it !”  . . . 
“ I didn’t  think  of  that  avore — and  so  forth ; till  in  a quarter 
of  an  hour  the  whole  question  has  to  he  discussed  over  again, 
through  the  fog  of  a dozen  fresh  fallacies,  and  the  miserable 
earnest  man  finds  himself  considerably  worse  off  than  when  he 
began.  Happy  for  him  if  some  chance  word  is  not  let  drop, 
which  will  afford  the  whole  assembly  an  excuse  for  falling  on  him 
open-mouthed,  as  the  cause  of  all  their  woes  ! 

That  chance  word  came.  Mr.  Penruddock  gave  a spiteful  hit, 
being,  as  he  said,  of  a cantankerous  turn,  to  Mr.  Treluddra, 
principal  “jowder,”  i.e.  fish  salesman,  of  Aberalva.  Whereon 
Treluddra,  whose  conscience  told  him  that  there  was  at  present 
in  his  back-yard  a cartload  and  more  of  fish  in  every  stage  of 
putrefaction,  which  he  had  kept  rotting  there  rather  than  lower 
the  market-price,  rose  in  wrath. 

“ An’  if  any  committee  puts  its  noz  into  my  back-yard,  if  it 
doant  get  the  biggest  cod’s  innards  as  I can  collar  hold  on,  about 
its  ears,  my  name  is  not  Treluddra  ! A man’s  house  is  his  castle, 
says  I,  and  them  as  takes  up  with  any  o’  this  open-day  burglary, 
for  it’s  nothing  less,  has  to  do  wi’  me,  that’s  all,  and  them  as 
knows  their  interest,  knows  me  ! ” 

Terrible  were  these  words;  for  old  Treluddra,  like  most  jowders, 
combined  the  profession  of  money-lender  with  that  of  salesman ; 
and  there  were  dozens  in  the  place  who  were  in  debt  to  him  for 
money  advanced  to  buy  boats  and  nets,  after  wreck  and  loss. 
Besides,  to  offend  one  jowder  was  to  offend  all.  They  combined 
to  buy  the  fish  at  any  price  they  chose  : if  angered,  they  would 
combine  now  and  then  not  to  buy  it  at  all. 

“You  old  twenty  per  cent,  rascal,”  roared  the  Lieutenant, 
“ after  making  a fortune  out  of  these  poor  fellows’  mishaps,  do 
you  want  to  poison  ’em  all  with  your  stinking  fish  ? ” 

“ I say,  Lieutenant,”  says  old  Beer,  whose  son  owed  Treluddra 
fifty  pounds  at  that  moment,  “fair’s  fair.  You  mind  your  Coast- 
guard, and  we’m  mind  our  trade.  We’m  free  fishermen,  by  charter 
and  right ; you’m  not  our  master,  and  you  shall  know  it.” 

“ Know  it?”  says  the  Lieutenant,  foaming. 

“ Iss ; you  put  your  head  inside  my  presences,  and  I’ll  split 
mun  open,  if  I be  hanged  for  it.” 

“ You  split  my  head  open?” 

“ Iss,  by .”  And  the  old  grey-bearded  sea-king  set  his 

arms  akimbo. 


222 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


“ Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  for  Heaven’s  sake  !”  cries  poor  Head- 
ley,  “ this  is  really  going  too  far.  Gentlemen,  the  vestry  is 
adjourned !” 

“Best  thing  too  ! oughtn’t  never  to  have  been  called,”  says 
one  and  another. 

And  some  one,  as  he  went  out,  muttered  something  about 
“interloping  strange  doctors,  colloquies  with  popish  curates,” 
which  was  answered  by  a — “ Put  ’mun  in  the  quay  pule,”  from 
Treluddra. 

Tom  stepped  up  to  Treluddra  instantly.  “What  were  you  so 
kind  as  to  say,  Sir  ? ” 

“ Treluddra  turned  very  pale.  “ I didn’t  say  nought.” 

“ Oh,  but  I assure  you  I heard;  and  I shall  be  most  happy 
to  jump  into  the  quay  pule  this  afternoon,  if  it  will  afford  you 
the  slightest  amusement.  Say  the  word,  and  I’ll  borrow  a flute, 
and  play  you  the  Rogue’s  March  all  the  while  with  my  right 
hand,  swimming  with  my  left.  How,  gentlemen,  one  word 
before  we  part ! ” 

“ Who  be  you  V 9 cries  some  one. 

“ A man  at  least,  and  ought  to  have  a fair  hearing.  How,  I 
ask  you,  what  possible  interest  can  I have  in  this  matter  ? I 
knew  when  I began  that  I should  give  myself  a frightful  quan- 
tity of  trouble,  and  get  only  what  I have  got.” 

“ Why  did  you  begin  at  all,  then  ?” 

“ Because  I was  a very  foolish,  meddlesome  ass,  who  fancied 
that  I ought  to  do  my  duty  once  in  a way  by  my  neighbours. 
How,  I have  only  to  say,  that  if  you  will  but  forgive  and  forget, 
and  let  bygones  be  bygones,  I promise  you  solemnly  I’ll  never 
do  my  duty  by  you  again  as  long  as  I live,  nor  interfere  with 
the  sacred  privilege  of  every  free-born  Englishman,  to  do  that 
which  is  right  in  the  sight  of  his  own  eyes,  and  wrong  too  ! ” 

“ You’m  making  fun  at  us,”  said  old  Beer  dubiously. 

“ Well,  Mr.  Beer,  and  isn’t  that  better  than  quarrelling  with 
you?  Come  along,  we’ll  all  go  home  and  forget  it,  like  good 
Christians.  Perhaps  the  cholera  won’t  come ; and  if  it  does, 
what’s  the  odds  so  long  as  you’re  happy,  eh?” 

And  to  the  intense  astonishment  both  of  the  Lieutenant  and 
Frank,  Tom  walked  home  with  the  malcontents,  making  himself 
so  agreeable,  that  he  was  forgiven  freely  on  the  spot. 

“ What  does  the  fellow  mean  ? He’s  deserted  us,  Sir,  after 
bringing  us  here  to  make  fools  of  us  ! ” 

Frank  could  give  no  answer ; but  Thurnall  gave  one  himself 
that  evening,  both  to  Frank  and  the  Lieutenant. 

“ The  cholera  will  come  ; and  these  fellows  are  just  mad ; but 
I mustn’t  quarrel  with  them,  mad  or  not.” 

“Why,  then?” 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


223 


“ For  the  same  reason  that  yon  mast  not.  If  we  keep  oar 
influence,  we  may  he  able  to  do  some  good  at  the  last,  which 
means,  in  plain  English,  saving  a few  hnman  lives.  As  for  yon, 
Lieatenant,  yon  have  behaved  like  a hero,  and  have  been  served 
as  heroes  generally  are.  What  yon  mast  do  is  this.  On  the 
first  hint  of  disease,  pack  np  yonr  traps  and  yoar  good  lady,  and 
go  and  live  in  the  watch-honse  across  the  river.  As  for  the 
men’s  honses,  I’ll  set  them  to  rights  in  a day,  if  yoa’ll  get  the 
commander  of  the  district  to  allow  yon  a little  chloride  of  lime 
and  whitewash.” 

And  so  the  matter  ended. 

“ Yoa  are  a greater  puzzle  than  ever  to  me,  Thurnall,”  said 
Frank.  “You  are  always  pretending  to  care  for  nothing  but 
your  own  interest,  and  yet  here  you  have  gone  out  of  your  way 
to  incur  odium,  knowing,  you  say,  that  your  cause  was  all  but 
hopeless.” 

“ Well,  I do  it  because  I like  it.  It’s  a sort  of  sporting  with 
your  true  doctor.  He  blazes  away  at  a disease  where  he  sees 
one,  as  he  would  at  a bear  or  a lion  ; the  very  sight  of  it  excites 
his  organ  of  destructiveness.  Don’t  you  understand  me  ? You 
hate  sin,  you  know.  Well,  I hate  disease.  Moral  evil  is  your 
devil,  and  physical  evil  is  mine.  I hate  it,  little  or  big  ; I hate 
to  see  a fellow  sick  ; I hate  to  see  a child  rickety  and  pale ; I 
hate  to  see  a speck  of  dirt  in  the  street ; I hate  to  see  a woman’s 
gown  torn  ; I hate  to  see  her  stockings  down  at  heel ; I hate  to 
see  anything  wasted,  anything  awry,  anything  going  wrong ; .1 
hate  to  see  water-power  wasted,  manure  wasted,  land  wasted, 
muscle  wasted,  pluck  wasted,  brains  wasted ; I hate  neglect; 
incapacity,  idleness,  ignorance,  and  all  the  disease  and  misery 
which  spring  out  of  that.  There’s  my  devil ; and  I can’t  help 
it,  for  the  life  of  me,  going  right  at  his  throat,  wheresoever  I 
meet  him ! ” 

Lastly,  rather  to  clear  his  reputation  than  in  the  hope  of  doing 
good,  Tom  wrote  up  to  London,  and  detailed  the  case  to  that 
much-calumniated  body,  the  General  Board  of  Health,  informing 
them  civilly,  that  the  Nuisances  Bemoval  Act  was  simply  waste 
paper ; that  he  could  not  get  it  to  bear  at  all  on  Aberalva ; and 
that  if  he  had  done  so,  it  would  have  been  equally  useless,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  it  constituted  the  offenders  themselves  judge 
and  jury  in  their  own  case. 

To  which  the  Board  • returned  for  answer,  that  they  were  per- 
fectly aware  of  the  fact,  and  deeply  deplored  the  same  : but  that 
as  soon  as  cholera  broke  out  in  Aberalva,  they  should  be  most 
happy  to  send  down  an  inspector. 

To  which  Tom  replied  courteously,  that  he  would  not  give 
them  the  trouble,  being  able,  he  trusted,  to  perform  without 


224 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


assistance  the  not  uncommon  feat  of  shutting  the  stable-door 
after  the  horse  was  stolen. 

And  so  was  Aberalva  left  “ a virgin  city,”  undefiled  by  Govern- 
ment interference,  to  the  blessings  of  that  “ local  government,” 
which  signifies,  in  plain  English,  the  leaving  the  few  to  destroy 
themselves  and  the  many,  by  the  unchecked  exercise  of  the 
virtues  of  pride  and  ignorance,  stupidity  and  stinginess. 

But  to  Tom,  in  his  sorest  need,  arose  a new  and  most  unex- 
pected coadjutor ; and  this  was  the  way  in  which  it  came  to 
pass. 

For  it  befell  in  that  pleasant  summer  time,  “ when  small  birds 
sing,  and  shaughs  are  green,”  that  Thurnall  started,  one  bright 
Sunday  eve,  to  see  a sick  child  at  an  upland  farm,  some  few  miles 
from  the  town.  And  partly  because  he  liked  the  walk,  and  partly 
because  he  could  no  other,  having  neither  horse  nor  gig,  he  went 
on  foot ; and  whistled  as  he  went  like  any  throstle-cock,  along 
the  pleasant  vale,  by  flowery  banks  and  ferny  walls,  by  oak  and 
ash  and  thorn,  while  Alva  flashed  and  swirled,  between  green 
boughs  below,  clear  coffee-brown  from  last  night’s  rain.  Some 
miles  up  the  turnpike  road  he  went,  and  then  away  to  the  right, 
through  the  ash-woods  of  Trebooze,  up  by  the  rill  which  drips 
from  pool  to  pool  over  the  ledges  of  grey  slate,  deep-bedded  in 
dark  sedge,  and  broad  bright  burdock  leaves,  and  tall  angelica,  and 
ell-broad  rings  and  tufts  of  king,  and  crown,  and  lady-fern,  and 
all  the  semi-tropic  luxuriance  of  the  fat  western  soil,  and  steam- 
ing western  woods  ; out  into  the  boggy  moor  at  the  glen  head, 
all  fragrant  with  the  gold- tipped  gale,  where  the  turf  is  enamelled 
with  the  hectic  marsh  violet,  and  the  pink  pimpernel,  and  the 
pale  yellow  leaf-stars  of  the  butterwort,  and  the  blue  bells  and 
green  threads  of  the  ivy-leaved  campanula ; out  upon  the  steep 
smooth  down  above,  and  away  over  the  broad  cattle-pastures  ; 
and  then  to  pause  a moment,  and  look  far  and  wide  over  land 
and  sea. 

It  was  a “ day  of  God.”  The  earth  lay  like  one  great  emerald, 
ringed  and  roofed  with  sapphire  ; blue  sea,  blue  mountain,  blue 
sky  overhead.  There  she  lay,  not  sleeping,  but  basking  in  her 
quiet  Sabbath  joy,  as  though  her  two  great  sisters  of  the  sea  ancf 
air  had  washed  her  weary  limbs  with  holy  tears,  and  purged 
away  the  stains  of  last  week’s  sin  and  toil,  and  cooled  her  hot 
worn  forehead  with  their  pure  incense-breath,  and  folded  her 
within  their  azure  robes,  and  brooded  over  her  with  smiles  of 
pitying  love,  till  she  smiled  back  in  answer,  and  took  heart  and 
hope  for  next  week’s  weary  work. 

Heart  and  hope  for  next  week’s  work. — That  was  the  sermon 
which  it  preached  to  Tom  Thurnall,  as  he  stood  there  alone,  a 
stranger  and  a wanderer,  like  Ulysses  of  old;  but,  like  him., 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


on 

self-helpful,  cheerful,  fate-defiant.  In  one  respect,  indeed,  he 
knew  less  than  Ulysses,  and  was  more  of  a heathen  than  he  ; for 
he  knew  not  what  Ulysses  knew,  that  a heavenly  guide  was 
with  him  in  his  wanderings  ; still  less  what  Ulysses  knew  not, 
that  what  he  called  the  malicious  sport  of  fortune  was,  in  truth, 
the  earnest  education  of  a Father  : but  who  will  blame  him  for 
getting  strength  and  comfort  from  such  merely  natural  founts, 
or  say  that  the  impulse  came  from  below,  and  not  from  above, 
which  made  him  say — 

“ Brave  old  world  she  is,  after  all,  and  right- well  made ; and 
looks  right  well  to-day,  in  her  go-to-meeting  clothes ; and  plenty 
of  room  and  chance  in  her  for  a brave  man  to  earn  his  bread,  if 
he  will  but  go  right  on  about  his  business,  as  the  birds  and  the 
flowers  do,  instead  of  peaking  and  pining  over  what  people  think 
of  him,  like  that  miserable  Briggs.  Hark  to  that  jolly  old 
missel-thrush  below ! he’s  had  his  nest  to  build,  and  his  supper 
to  earn,  and  his  young  ones  to  feed,  and  all  the  crows  and  kites 
in  the  wood  to  drive  away,  the  sturdy  John  Bull  that  he  is ; 
and  yet  he  can  find  time  to  sing  as  merrily  as  an  abbot,  morning 
and  evening,  since  he  sang  the  new  year  in  last  January.  And 
why  should  not  I ? ” 

Let  him  be  a while ; there  are  sounds  of  deeper  meaning  in 
the  air,  if  his  heart  had  ears  to  hear  them ; far  off  church-bells 
chiming  to  even-song;  hymn-tunes  floating  up  the  glen  from 
the  little  chapel  in  the  vale.  He  may  learn  what  they,  too, 
mean  some  day.  Honour  to  him  at  least,  that  he  has  learnt 
what  the  missel-thrush  below  can  tell  him.  If  he  accept  cheer- 
fully and  manfully  the  things  which  he  does  see,  he  will  be 
all  the  more  able  to  enter  hereafter  into  the  deeper  mystery  of 
things  unseen.  The  road  toward  true  faith  and  reverence  for 
God’s  kingdom  of  heaven  does  not  lie  through  Manichaean  con- 
tempt and  slander  of  God’s  kingdom  of  earth. 

So  let  him  stride  over  the  down,  enjoying  the  mere  fact  of 
life,  and  health,  and  strength,  and  whistling  shrilly  to  the  bird 
below,  who  trumpets  out  a few  grand  ringing  notes,  and  repeats 
them  again  and  again,  in  saucy  self-satisfaction ; and  then  stops 
to  listen  for  the  answer  to  this  challenge ; and  then  rattles  on 
again  with  a fresh  passage,  more  saucily  than  ever,  in  a tone 
which  seems  to  ask, — “You  could  sing  that,  eh?  but  can  you 
sing  this,  my  fine  fellow  on  the  down  above  ? ” So  he  seems  to 
Tom  to  say;  and,  tickled  with  the  fancy,  Tom  laughs,  and 
whistles,  and  laughs,  and  has  just  time  to  compose  his  features 
as  he  steps  up  to  the  farm-yard  gate. 

Let  him  be,  I say  again.  He  might  have  better  Sunday 
thoughts ; perhaps  he  will  have  some  day.  At  least  he  is  a 
man,  and  a brave  one;  and  as  the  greater  contains  the  less, 

Q 


226 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


surely  before  a man  can  be  a good  man,  lie  must  be  a brave  one 
first,  much  more  a man  at  all.  Cowards,  old  Odin  held,  in- 
evitably went  to  the  very  bottom  of  Hela-pool,  and  by  no  pos- 
sibility, unless  of  course  they  became  brave  at  last,  could  rise 
out  of  that  everlasting  bog,  but  sank  whining  lower  and  lower, 
like  mired  cattle,  to  all  eternity  in  the  unfathomable  peat-slime. 
And  if  the  twenty-first  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Eevelation,  and 
the  eighth  verse,  is  to  be  taken  as  it  stands,  their  doom  has  not 
altered  since  Odin’s  time,  unless  to  become  still  worse. 

Tom  came  up,  over  the  home-close  and  through  the  barton- 
gate,  through  the  farm-yard,  and  stopped  at  last  at  the  porch. 
The  front  door  was  open,  and  the  door  beyond  it ; and  ere  he 
knocked,  he  stopped,  looking  in  silence  at  a picture  which  held 
him  spell-bound  for  a moment  by  its  rich  and  yet  quiet  beauty. 

Tom  was  no  artist,  and  knew  no  more  of  painting,  in  spite  of 
his  old  friendship  with  Claude,  than  was  to  be  expected  of  a 
keen  and  observant  naturalist  who  had  seen  half  the  globe. 
Indeed,  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  snubbing  Claude’s  pro- 
fession ; and  of  arriving,  on  pre-Raphaelite  grounds,  at  a by  no 
means  pre-Raphaelite  conclusion.  “ A picture,  you  say,  is  worth 
nothing  unless  you  copy  Nature.  But  you  can’t  copy  her.  She 
is  ten  times  more  gorgeous  than  any  man  can  dare  represent  her. 
Ergo,  every  picture  is  a failure ; and  the  nearest  hedge-bush  is 
worth  all  your  galleries  together” — a syllogism  of  sharp  edge, 
which  he  would  back  up  by  Byron’s — 

“ I’ve  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real, 

Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal.’ * 

But  here  was  one  of  Nature’s  own  pictures,  drawn  and 
coloured  by  more  than  mortal  hand,  and  framed  over  and  above, 
ready  to  his  eye,  by  the  square  of  the  dark  doorway,  beyond 
which  all  was  flooded  with  the  full  glory  of  the  low  north- 
western sun. 

A dark  oak-ribbed  ceiling ; walls  of  pale  fawn-yellow ; an 
open  window,  showing  a corner  of  rich  olive-stone  wall,  en- 
amelled with  golden  lichens,  orange  and  green  combs  of  poly- 
pody, pink  and  grey  tufts  of  pellitory,  all  glowing  in  the 
sunlight. 

Above  the  window-sill  rose  a bush  of  maiden-blush  roses ; a 
tall  spire  of  blue  monkshood ; and  one  head  of  scarlet  lychnis, 
like  a spark  of  fire ; and,  behind  all,  the  dark  blue  sea,  which 
faded  into  the  pale-blue  sky. 

At  the  window  stood  a sofa  of  old  maroon  leather,  its  dark 
hue  throwing  out  in  strong  relief  two  figures  who  sat  upon  it. 
And  when  Tom  had  once  looked  at  them,  he  looked  at  nothing 
else. 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


227 


There  sat  the  sick  girl,  her  head  nestling  upon  the  shoulder  of 
Grace  Harvey ; a tall,  delicate  thing  of  seventeen,  with  thin 
white  cheeks,  the  hectic  spot  aflame  on  each,  and  long  fair  curls, 
which  mingled  lovingly  with  Grace’s  dark  tresses,  as  they  sat 
cheek  against  cheek,  and  hand  in  hand.  Her  eyes  were  closed ; 
Tom  thought  at  first  that  she  was  asleep  : hut  there  was  a quiet 
smile  about  her  pale  lips  ; and  every  now  and  then  her  left  hand 
left  Grace’s,  to  move  toward  a leaf  full  of  strawberries  which  lay 
on  Grace’s  lap ; and  Tom  could  see  that  she  was  listening 
intently  to  Grace,  who  told  and  told,  in  that  sweet,  measured 
voice  of  hers,  her  head  erect,  her  face  in  the  full  blaze  of  sun- 
shine, her  great  eyes  looking  out  far  away  beyond  the  sea,  beyond 
the  sky,  into  some  infinite  which  only  she  beheld. 

Tom  had  approached  unheard,  across  the  farm-yard  straw. 
He  stood  and  looked  his  fill.  The  attitude  of  the  two  girls  was 
so  graceful,  that  he  was  loth  to  disturb  it ; and  loth,  too,  to  dis- 
turb a certain  sunny  calm  which  warmed  at  once  and  softened 
his  stout  heart. 

He  wished,  too — he  scarce  knew  why — to  hear  what  Grace 
was  saying ; and  as  he  listened,  her  voice  was  so  distinct  and 
delicate  in  its  modulations,  that  every  word  came  clearly  to  his 
ear. 

It  was  the  beautiful  old  legend  of  St.  Dorothea  : — 

“ So  they  did  all  sorts  of  dreadful  things  to  her,  and  then  led 
her  away  to  die ; and  they  stood  laughing  there.  But  after  a 
little  time  there  came  a boy,  the  prettiest  boy  that  ever  was  seen 
on  earth,  and  in  his  hand  a basket  full  of  fruits  and  flowers,  more 
beautiful  than  tongue  can  tell.  And  he  said,  ‘ Dorothea  sends 
you  these,  out  of  the  heavenly  garden  which  she  told  you  of — 
will  you  believe  her  now  ? ’ And  then,  before  they  could  reply, 
he  vanished  away.  And  Theophilus  looked  at  the  flowers,  and 
tasted  the  fruit — and  a new  heart  grew  up  within  him ; and  he 
said,  ‘ Dorothea’s  God  shall  be  my  God,  and  I will  die  for  Him 
like  her.’ 

“ So  you  see,  darling,  there  are  sweeter  fruits  than  these,  and 
gayer  flowers,  in  the  place  to  which  you  go  ; and  all  the  lovely 
things  in  this  world  here  will  seem  quite  poor  and  worthless 
beside  the  glory  of  that  better  land  which  He  will  show  you  : 
and  yet  you  will  not  care  to  look  at  them ; for  the  sight  of  Him 
will  be  enough,  and  you  will  care  to  think  of  nothing  else.” 

“ And  you  are  sure  He  will  accept  me,  after  all  ] ” asked  the 
sick  girl,  opening  her  eyes,  and  looking  up  at  Grace.  She  saw 
Thurnall  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  gave  a little  scream. 

Tom  came  forward,  bowing.  “ I am  very  sorry  to  have  dis- 
turbed you.  I suspect  Miss  Harvey  was  giving  you  better 
medicine  than  I can  give.” 

Q 2 


228 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


Now  why  did  Tom  say  that.,  to  whom  the  legend  of  St. 
Dorothea,  and,  indeed,  that  whole  belief  in  a better  land,  was  as 
a dream  fit  only  for  girls  ] 

Not  altogether  because  he  must  need  say  something  civil. 
True,  he  felt,  on  the  whole,  about  the  future  state  as  Goethe  did 
— “To  the  able  man  this  world  is  not  dumb:  why  should  he 
ramble  off  into  eternity]  Such  incomprehensible  subjects  lie 
too  far  off,  and  only  disturb  our  thoughts,  if  made  the  subject 
of  daily  meditation.”  That  there  was  a future  state  he  had  no 
doubt.  Our  having  been  born  once,  he  used  to  say,  is  the 
strongest  possible  presumption  in  favour  of  our  being  bom 
again ; and  probably,  as  nature  always  works  upward  and 
develops  higher  forms,  in  some  higher  state.  Indeed,  for  aught 
he  knew,  the  old  ichthyosaurs  and  plesiosaurs  might  be  alive 
now,  as  lions — or  as  men.  He  himself,  indeed,  he  had  said,  ere 
now,  had  been  probably  a pterodactyle  of  the  Lias,  neither  fish, 
flesh,  nor  good  red  herring,  but  crocodile  and  bat  in  one,  able  alike 
to  swim,  or  run,  or  fly,  eat  anything,  and  live  in  any  element. 
Still  it  was  no  concern  of  his.  He  was  here  ; and  here  was  his 
business.  He  had  not  thought  of  this  life  before  he  came  into 
it ; and  it  would  be  time  enough  to  think  of  the  next  life  when 
he  got  into  it.  Besides,  he  had  all  a doctor’s  dislike  of  those 
terrors  of  the  unseen  world,  with  which  some  men  are  wont  to 
oppress  still  more  failing  nature,  and  break  the  bruised  reed. 
His  business  was  to  cure  his  patients’  bodies ; and  if  he  could 
not  do  that,  at  least  to  see  that  life  was  not  shortened  in  them 
by  nervous  depression  and  anxiety.  Accustomed  to  see  men  of 
every  character  die  under  every  possible  circumstance,  he  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  “ safety  of  a man’s  soul  ” could 
by  no  possibility  be  inferred  from  his  death-bed  temper.  The 
vast  majority,  good  or  bad,  died  in  peace  : why  not  let  them  die 
so  ] If  nature  kindly  took  off  the  edge  of  sorrow,  by  blunting 
the  nervous  system,  what  right  had  man  to  interfere  with  so 
merciful  an  arrangement]  Every  man,  he  held  in  his  easy 
optimism,  would  go  where  he  ought  to  go  : and  it  could  be  no 
possible  good  to  him — indeed,  it  might  be  a very  bad  thing  for 
him,  as  in  this  life — to  go  where  he  ought  not  to  go.  So  he  used 
to  argue,  with  three-fourths  of  mankind,  mingling  truth  and 
falsehood  : and  would,  on  these  grounds,  have  done  his  best  to 
turn  the  dissenting  preacher  out  of  that  house,  had  he  found  him 
in  it.  But  to-day  he  was  in  a more  lenient,  perhaps  in  a more 
human,  and  therefore  more  spiritual  mood.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  him,  full  of  life,  and  power,  and  hope,  to  look  on  death 
in  that  cold,  careless  way  ; but  for  that  poor  young  thing,  cut 
off  just  as  life  opened  from  all  that  made  life  lovely — was 
not  death  for  her  a painful,  ugly  anomaly  ] Could  she  be 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


229 


blamed,  if  she  shuddered  at  going  forth  into  the  unknown 
blank,  she  knew  not  whither?  All  very  well  for  the  old  em- 
peror of  Rome,  who  had  lived  his  life  and  done  his  work, 
to  play  with  the  dreary  question — 

“ Animula,  vagula,  bland  ilia, 

Hospes  comesque  corporis, 

Qiue  nunc  abibis  in  loca, 
ltigidula,  nudula,  pallida? — ” 

But  she,  who  had  lived  no  life,  and  done  no  work — only  had 
pined  through  weary  years  of  hideous  suffering ; crippled  and 
ulcerated  with  scrofula,  now  dying  of  consumption  : was  it  not  a 
merciful  dream,  a beautiful  dream,  a just  dream — so  beautiful 
and  just,  that  perhaps  it  might  be  true, — that  in  some  fairer 
world,  all  this,  and  more,  might  be  made  up  to  her  ? If  not,  was 
it  not  a mistake  and  an  injustice,  that  she  should  ever  have  come 
into  the  world  at  all  ? And  was  not  Grace  doing  a rational  as 
well  as  a loving  work,  in  telling  her,  under  whatsoever  symbols, 
that  such  a home  of  rest  and  beauty  awaited  her  ? It  was  not 
the  sort  of  place  to  which  he  expected,  perhaps  even  wished,  to 
go  : but  it  fitted  well  enough  with  a young  girl’s  hopes,  a young 
girl’s  powers  of  enjoyment.  Let  it  be ; perhaps  there  was  such 
a place, — why  not  ? — fitted  for  St.  Dorothea,  and  those  cut  off  in 
youth  like  her;  and  other  places  fit  for  such  as  he.  And  he 
spoke  more  tenderly  than  usual  (though  he  was  never  untender), 
as  he  said, — 

“ And  you  feel  better  to-day  ? Iam  sure  you  must,  with  such 
a kind  friend,  to  tell  you  such  sweet  tales.” 

“ I do  not  feel  better,  thank  you.  And  why  should  I wish  to 
do  so  ? You  all  take  too  much  trouble  about  me ; why  do  you 
want  to  keep  me  here?” 

“We  are  loth  to  lose  you ; and  besides,  while  you  can  be  kept 
here,  it  is  a sign  that  you  ought  to  be  here.” 

“ So  Grace  tells  me.  Yes,  I will  be  patient,  and  wait  till  He 
has  done  His  work.  I am  more  patient  now ; am  I not,  Grace  ? ” 
And  she  fondled  Grace’s  hand,  and  looked  up  in  her  face. 

“ Yes,”  said  Grace,  who  was  standing  near,  with  downcast  face, 
trying  to  avoid  Tom’s  eye.  “ Yes,  you  are  very  good ; but  you 
must  not  talk  but  the  girl  went  on,  with  kindling  eye, — 

“ Ah — I was  very  fretful  at  first,  because  I could  not  go  to 
heaven  at  once  : but  Grace  showed  me  how  it  was  good  to  be 
here,  as  well  as  there,  as  long  as  He  thought  that  I might  be 
made  perfect  by  sufferings.  And  since  then,  my  pain  has  become 
quite  pleasant  to  me,  and  I am  ready  to  wait  and  bear — wait  and 
bear.” 

“You  must  not  talk — see,  you  are  beginning  to  cough,”  said 


230 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


Tom,  who  wished  somehow  to  stop  a form  of  thought  which  so 
utterly  puzzled  him.  Not  that  he  had  not  heard  it  before , 
common-place  enough  indeed  it  is,  thank  God  : hut  that  day  the 
words  came  home  to  him  with  spirit  and  power,  all  the  more 
solemnly  from  their  contrast  with  the  scene  around — without,  all 
sunshine,  joy,  and  glory  : all  which  could  tempt  a human  being 
to  linger  here  : and  within,  that  young  girl  longing  to  leave  it  all, 
and  yet  content  to  stay  and  suffer.  What  mysteries  there  were 
in  the  human  spirit — mysteries  to  which  that  knowledge  of  man- 
kind on  which  he  prided  himself  gave  him  no  key  ! 

“ What  if  I were  laid  on  my  back  to-morrow  for  life,  by  a fall, 
a blow,  as  I have  seen  many  a better  man  than  me ; — should  I not 
wish  to  have  one  to  talk  to  me,  as  she  was  talking  to  that  child  1 ” 
And  for  a moment  a yearning  after  Grace  came  over  him,  as  it 
had  done  before,  and  swept  from  his  mind  the  dark  cloud  of 
suspicion. 

“ Now  I must  talk  with  your  mother,”  said  he ; “ for  you  have 
better  company  than  mine  ; and  I hear  her  just  coming  in.” 

He  settled  little  matters  for  his  patient’s  comfort  with  the 
farmer’s  wife.  When  he  returned  to  bid  her  good-bye  Grace  was 
gone. 

“ I hope  I have  not  driven  her  away.” 

“ Oh  no ; she  had  been  here  an  hour,  and  she  must  go  back 
now,  to  get  her  mother’s  supper.” 

“ That  is  a good  girl,”  said  Tom,  looking  after  her  as  she  went 
down  the  field. 

“ She’s  an  angel  from  heaven,  Sir.  Not  a three  days  go  over 
without  her  walking  up  here  all  this  way  after  her  work,  to 
comfort  my  poor  maid — and  all  of  us  as  well.  It’s  like  the  dew 
of  heaven  upon  us.  Pity,  Sir,  you  didn’t  see  her  home.” 

“ I should  have  liked  it  well  enough : but  folks  might  talk, 
if  two  young  people  were  seen  walking  together  Sunday 
evening.” 

“ Oh,  Sir,  they  know  her  too  well  by  now,  for  miles  round : 
and  you  too,  Sir,  I’ll  make  bold  to  say.” 

“ Well,  at  least  I’ll  go  after  her.” 

So  Tom  went,  and  kept  Grace  in  sight,  till  she  had  crossed 
the  little  moor,  and  disappeared  in  the  wood  below. 

He  had  gone  about  an  hundred  yards  into  the  wood,  when  he 
heard  voices  and  laughter — then  a loud  shriek.  He  hurried 
forward.  In  another  minute,  Grace  rushed  up  to  him,  her  eyes 
wide  with  terror  and  indignation. 

“ What  is  it  h ” cried  he,  trying  to  stop  her  : but,  not  seeming 
to  see  him,  she  dashed  past  him,  and  ran  on.  Another  moment, 
and  a man  appeared  in  full  pursuit. 

It  was  Trebooze  of  Trebooze,  an  evil  laugh  upon  his  face. 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY.  231 

Tom  planted  himself  across  the  narrow  path  in  an  attitude 
which  there  was  no  mistaking. 

Hot  a word  passed  between  them.  Silently  and  instinctively, 
like  two  fierce  dogs,  the  two  men  flew  upon  each  other ; Tom 
full  of  righteous  wrath,  and  Trebooze  of  half-drunken  passion, 
turned  to  fury  by  the  interruption. 

He  was  a far  taller  and  heavier  man  than  Thurnall,  and,  as 
the  bully  of  the  neighbourhood,  counted  on  an  easy  victory. 
But  he  was  mistaken.  After  the  first  rush  was  over,  he  found 
it  impossible  to  close  with  his  foe,  and  saw  in  the  doctor’s  face, 
now  grown  cool  and  business-like  as  usual,  the  wily  smile  of 
superior  science  and  expected  triumph. 

44  Brandy-and-water  in  the  morning  ought  not  to  improve  the 
wind,”  said  Tom  to  himself,  as  his  left  hand  countered  provok- 
ingly,  while  his  right  rattled  again  and  again  upon  Trebooze’s 
watch-chain.  44  Justice  will  overtake  you  in  the  offending  part, 
which  I take  to  be  the  epigastric  region.” 

In  a few  minutes  more  the  scuffle  ended  shamefully  enough 
for  the  sottish  squireen. 

Tom  stood  over  him  for  a minute,  as  he  sat  grovelling  and 
groaning  among  the  long  grass.  44  I may  as  well  see  that  I have 
not  killed  him.  Ho,  he  will  do  as  well  as  ever — which  is  not 

Baying  much How,  Sir ! Go  home  quietly,  and  ask  Mrs. 

Trebooze  for  a little  rhubarb  and  salvolatile.  I’ll  call  up  in 
the  course  of  to-morrow  to  see  how  you  are.” 

44  I’ll  kill  you,  if  I catch  you  ! ” 

4 ‘As  a man,  I am  open  of  course  to  be  killed  by  any  fair 
means:  but  as  a doctor,  I am  still  bound  to  see  after  my 
patient’s  health.”  And  Tom  bowed  civilly,  and  walked  back 
up  the  path  to  find  Grace,  after  washing  face  and  hands  in 
the  brook. 

He  found  her  up  at  Tolchard’s  farm,  trembling  and  thankful. 

44 1 cannot  do  less  than  see  Miss  Harvey  safe  home.” 

Grace  hesitated. 

44  Mrs.  Tolchard,  I am  sure,  will  walk  with  us ; it  would  be 
safer,  in  case  you  felt  faint  again.” 

Eut  Mrs.  Tolchard  would  not  come  to  save  Grace’s  notions  of 
propriety;  so  Tom  passed  Grace’s  arm  through  his  own.  She 
offered  to  withdraw  it. 

44  Ho  ; you  will  require  it.  You  do  not  know  yet  how  much 
you  have  gone  through.  My  fear  is,  that  you  will  feel  it  all  the 
more  painfully  when  the  excitement  is  past.  I shall  send  you 
up  a cordial ; and  you  must  promise  me  to  take  it.  You  owe 
me  a little  debt  you  know,  to*  day ; you  must  pay  it  by  taking 
my  medicines.’" 

Grace  looked  up  at  him  sidelong;  for  there  was  a playful 


232 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


tenderness  in  his  voice  which  was  new  to  her,  and  which 
thrilled  her  through  and  through. 

“ I will  indeed,  I promise  you.  But  I am  so  much  better 
now.  Beally,  I can  walk  alone  ! ” And  she  withdrew  her  arm 
from  his,  but  not  hastily. 

After  that  they  walked  on  awhile  in  silence.  Grace  kept 
her  veil  down,  for  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  loved  that 
man  intensely,  utterly.  She  did  not  seek  to  deny  it  to  herself. 
God  had  given  him  to  her,  and  hers  he  was.  The  very  sea,  the 
devourer  whom  she  hated,  who  hungered  to  swallow  up  all 
3roung  fair  life,  the  very  sea  had  yielded  him  up  to  her,  alive 
from  the  dead.  And  yet  that  man,  she  knew,  suspected  her  of 
a base  and  hateful  crime.  It  was  too  dreadful ! She  could  not 
exculpate  herself,  save  by  blank  denial — and  what  would  that 
avail  ? The  large  hot  drops  ran  down  her  cheeks.  She  had 
need  of  all  her  strength  to  prevent  sobbing. 

She  looked  round.  In  the  bright  summer  evening,  all  things 
were  full  of  joy  and  love.  The  hedge-banks  were  gay  as  flower 
gardens  ; the  swifts  chased  each  other,  screaming  harsh  delight  ; 
the  ring-dove  murmured  in  the  wood  beneath  his  world-old 
song,  which  she  had  taught  the  children  a hundred  times — 

“ Curuckity  coo,  curuck  coo; 

You  love  me,  and  I love  you ! ” 

The  woods  slept  golden  in  the  evening  sunlight ; and  over  head 
brooded,  like  one  great  smile  of  God,  the  everlasting  blue. 

“He  will  right  me!”  she  said.  “‘Hold  thee  still  in  the 
Lord,  and  abide  patiently,  and  He  will  make  thy  righteousness 
clear  as  the  light,  and  thy  just  dealing  as  the  noon-day !’  ” And 
after  that  thought  she  wept  no  more. 

Was  it  as  a reward  for  her  faith  that  Tom  began  to  talk  to 
her  ? He  had  paced  on  by  her  side,  serious,  but  not  sad.  True, 
lie  had  suspected  her ; he  suspected  her  still.  But  that  scene 
with  the  dying  child  had  been  no  sham.  There,  at  least,  there 
was  nothing  to  suspect,  nothing  to  sneer  at.  The  calm  purity, 
self-sacrifice,  hope,  which  was  contained  in  it,  had  softened  his 
world-hardened  spirit,  and  woke  up  in  him  feelings  which  were 
always  pleasant,  feelings  which  the  sight  of  his  father,  or  the 
writing  to  his  father,  could  only  awaken.  Quaintly  enough,  the 
thought  of  Grace  and  of  his  father  seemed  intertwined,  inex- 
tricable. If  the  old  man  had  but  such  a nurse  as  she  ! And  for 
a moment  he  felt  a glow  of  tenderness  toward  her,  because  he 
thought  she  would  be  tender  to  his  father.  She  had  stolen  his 
money,  certainly  ; or  if  not,  she  knew  where  it  was,  and  would 
not  tell  him.  Well,  what  matter  just  then?  He  did  not  want 
the  money  at  that  minute.  How  much  pleasanter  and  wiser  to 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


233 


take  things  as  they  came,  and  enjoy  himself  while  he  could  ; 
and  fancy  that  she  was  always  what  he  had  seen  her  that  day. 
After  all,  it  was  much  more  pleasant  to  trust  people  than  to 
suspect  them  : “ Handsome  is  who  handsome  does  ! And  be- 
sides, she  did  me  the  kindness  of  saving  my  life ; so  it  would 
hut  he  civil  to  talk  to  her  a little.” 

He  began  to  talk  to  her  about  the  lovely  scene  around ; and 
found,  to  his  surprise,  that  she  saw  as  much  of  t as  he,  and  saw 
a great  deal  more  in  it  than  he.  Her  answers  were  short,  modest, 
faltering  ; but  each  one  of  them  suggestive ; and  Tom  soon  found 
that  he  had  met  with  a mind  which  contained  all  the  elements 
of  poetry,  and  needed  only  education  to  develop  them. 

° ‘What  a blue  stocking,  pre-Raphaelite  seven th-heavenarian 
she  would  have  been,  if  she  had  had  the  misfortune  to  be  born  in 
that  station  of  life  !”  But  where  a clever  man  is  talking  to  a 
beautiful  woman,  talk  he  will,  and  must,  for  the  mere  sake  of 
showing  off,  though  she  be  but  a village  schoolmistress ; and 
Tom  soon  found  himself,  with  a secret  sneer  at  his  own  vanity, 
displaying  before  her  all  the  much  finer  things  that  he  had  seen 
in  his  travels ; and  as  he  talked,  she  answered,  with  quiet  ex- 
pressions of  wonder,  sympathy,  regret  at  her  own  narrow  sphere 
of  experience,  till,  as  if  the  truth  was  not  enough,  he  found 
himself  running  to  the  very  edge  of  exaggeration,  and  a little 
over  it,  in  the  enjoyment  of  calling  out  her  passion  for  the  mar- 
vellous, especially  when  called  out  in  honour  of  himself. 

And  she,  simple  creature,  drank  it  all  in  as  sparkling  wine, 
and  only  dreaded  lest  the  stream  should  cease.  Adventures  with 
noble  savages  in  palm-fringed  coral-islands,  with  greedy  robbers 
amid  the  fragrant  hills  of  Greece,  with  fierce  Indians  beneath 
the  snow-peaks  of  the  Far  West,  with  coward  Mexicans  among 
tunals  of  cactus  and  agave,  beneath  the  burning  tropic  sun — 
What  a man  he  was ! Where  had  he  not  been  h and  what 
had  he  not  seen  1 And  how  he  had  been  preserved — for  her  ? 
And  his  image  seemed  to  her  utterly  beautiful  and  glorious, 
clothed  as  it  was  in  the  beauty  and  glory  of  all  that  he  had  seen, 
and  done,  and  suffered.  Oh  Love,  Love,  Love,  the  same  in 
peasant  and  in  peer  ! The  more  honour  to  you,  then,  old  Love, 
to  be  the  same  thing  in  this  world  which  is  common  to  peasant 
and  to  peer.  They  say  that  you  are  blind ; a dreamer,  an  exag- 
gerate— a liar,  in  short.  They  know  just  nothing  about  you, 
then.  You  will  not  see  people  as  they  seem,  and  as  they  have 
become,  no  doubt : but  why  1 because  you  see  them  as  they  ought 
to  be,  and  are,  in  some  deep  way,  eternally,  in  the  sight  of  Him 
who  conceived  and  created  them. 

At  last  she  started,  as  if  waking  from  a pleasant  dream,  and 
spoke,  half  to  herself — 


234 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


“ Oh,  how  foolish  of  me — to  be  idling  away  this  opportunity: 
the  only  one,  perhaps,  which  I may  have  ! Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall, 
tell  me  about  this  cholera  !” 

“ What  about  it?” 

“Everything.  Ever  since  I heard  of  what  you  have  been 
saying  to  the  people,  ever  since  Mr.  Headley’s  sermon,  it  has 
been  like  fire  in  my  ears  ! ” 

“ I am  truly  glad  to  hear  it.  If  all  parsons  had  preached  about 
it  for  the  last  fifteen  years  as  Mr.  Headley  did  last  Sunday,  if 
they  had  told  people  plainly  that,  if  the  cholera  was  God’s  judg- 
ment at  all,  it  was  His  judgment  of  the  sin  of  dirt,  and  that  the 
repentance  which  He  required  was  to  wash  and  be  clean  in  literal 
earnest,  the  cholera  would  be  impossible  in  England  by  now.” 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall : but  is  it  not  God’s  doing?  and  can  we 
stop  His  hand  ?” 

“ I know  nothing  about  that,  Miss  Harvey.  I only  know 
that  wheresoever  cholera  breaks  out,  it  is  some  one’s  fault : and 
if  deaths  occur,  some  one  ought  to  be  tried  for  manslaughter — I 
had  almost  said  murder,  and  transported  fbr  life.” 

“ Some  one  ? Who  ?” 

“ That  will  be  settled  in  the  next  generation,  when  men  have 
common  sense  enough  to  make  laws  for  the  preservation  of  their 
own  lives,  against  the  dirt,  and  covetousness,  and  idleness,  of  a 
set  of  human  hogs.” 

Grace  was  silent  for  awhile. 

“But  can  nothing  be  done  to  keep  it  off  now?  Must  it 
come?” 

“ I believe  it  must.  Still  one  may  do  enough  to  save  many 
lives  in  the  meanwhile.” 

“ Enough  to  save  many  lives — lives  ? — immortal  souls,  too  ! 
Oh,  what  could  I do  ?” 

“A  great  deal,  Miss  Harvey,”  said  Tom,  across  whom  the 
recollection  of  Grace’s  influence  flashed  for  the  first  time.  What 
a help  she  might  be  to  him  ! 

And  he  talked  on  and  on  to  her,  and  found  that  she  entered 
into  his  plans  with  all  her  wild  enthusiasm,  but  also  with  sound 
practical  common  sense ; and  Tom  began  to  respect  her  intellect 
as  well  as  her  heart. 

At  last,  however,  she  faltered — 

“ Oh,  if  I could  but  believe  all  this  ! Is  it  not  fighting  against 
God?” 

“ I do  not  know  what  sort  of  God  yours  is,  Miss  Harvey.  I 
believe  in  some  One  who  made  all  that ! ” and  he  pointed  round 
him  to  the  glorious  woods  and  glorious  sky ; “I  should  havs 
fancied  from  your  speech  to  that  poor  girl,  that  you  believed  in 
Him  also.  You  may,  however,  only  believe  in  the  same  being 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


235 


in  whom  the  Methodist  parson  believes,  one  who  intends  to  hurl 
into  endless  agony  every  human  being  who  has  not  had  a chance 
of  hearing  the  said  preacher's  nostrum  for  delivering  men  out  of 
the  hands  of  Him  who  made  them  ! ” 

"What  do  you  mean'?”  asked  Grace,  startled  alike  by  Tom's 
words,  and  the  intense  scorn  and  bitterness  of  his  tone. 

“ That  matters  little.  What  do  you  mean  in  turn  ? What  did 
you  mean  by  saying,  that  saving  lives  is  saving  immortal  souls  ? ” 
“ Oh,  is  it  not  giving  them  time  to  repent  ? What  will  become 
of  them,  if  they  are  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  their  sins  h ” 

“ If  you  had  a son  whom  it  was  not  convenient  to  you  to  keep 
at  home,  would  his  being  a bad  fellow — the  greatest  scoundrel  on 
the  earth — be  a reason  for  your  turning  him  into  the  streets  to 
live  by  thieving,  and  end  by  going  to  the  dogs  for  ever  and  a 
day  ? ” 

“ Ho  ; but  what  do  you  mean  h ” 

“ That  I do  not  think  that  God,  when  He  sends  a human  being 
out  of  this  world,  is  more  cruel  than  you  or  I would  be.  If  we 
transport  a man  because  he  is  too  bad  to  be  in  England,  and  he 
shows  any  signs  of  mending,  we  give  him  a fresh  chance  in  the 
colonies,  and  let  him  start  again,  to  try  if  he  cannot  do  better 
next  time.  And  do  you  fancy  that  God,  when  He  transports  a 
man  out  of  this  world,  never  gives  him  a fresh  chance  in  another 
— especially  when  nine  out  of  ten  poor  rascals  have  never  had  a 
fair  chance  yet  ? ” 

Grace  looked  up  in  his  face  astonished. 

“ Oh,  if  I could  but  believe  that ! Oh ! it  would  give  me  some 

gleam  of  hope  for  my  two  ! But  no — it's  not  in  Scripture. 

Where  the  tree  falls  there  it  lies.” 

“ And  as  the  fool  dies,  so  dies  the  wise  man ; and  there  is  one 
account  to  the  righteous  and  to  the  wicked.  And  a man  has  no 
pre-eminence  over  a beast,  for  both  turn  alike  to  dust;  and 
Solomon  does  not  know,  he  says,  or  any  one  else,  anything  about 
the  whole  matter,  or  even  whether  there  be  any  life  after  death 
at  all ; and  so,  he  says,  the  only  wise  thing  is  to  leave  such  deep 
questions  alone,  for  Him  who  made  us  to  settle  in  His  own  way, 
and  just  to  fear  God  and  keep  His  commandments,  and  do  the 
work  which  lies  nearest  us  with  all  our  might.” 

Grace  was  silent. 

“ You  are  surprised  to  hear  me  quote  Scripture,  and  well 
you  may  be  : but  that  same  books  of  Ecclesiastes  is  a very  old 
favourite  with  me ; for  I am  no  Christian,  but  a worlding,  if  ever 
there  was  one.  But  it  does  puzzle  me  why  you,  who  are  a Chris- 
tian, should  talk  one  half-hour  as  you  have  been  talking  to  that 
poor  girl,  and  the  next  go  for  information  about  the  next  life  to 
poor  old  disappointed,  broken-hearted  Solomon,  with  his  three 


236 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  RAY. 


hundred  and  odd  idolatrous  wives,  who  confesses  fairly  that  this 
life  is  a failure,  and  that  he  does  not  know  whether  there  is  any 
next  life  at  all.” 

“ Whether  Tom  were  altogether  right  or  not,  is  not  the  ques- 
tion here ; the  novelist’s  business  is  to  represent  the  real  thoughts 
of  mankind,  when  they  are  not  absolutely  unfit  to  he  told ; and 
certainly  Tom  spoke  the  doubts  of  thousands  when  he  spoke  his 
own. 

Grace  was  silent  still. 

“ Well,”  he  said,  “ beyond  that  I can’t  go,  being  no  theologian. 
But  when  a preacher  tells  people  in  one  breath  of  a God  who  so 
loves  men  that  He  gave  His  own  Son  to  save  them,  and  in  the 
next,  that  the  same  God  so  hates  men  that  He  will  cast  nine- 
tenths  of  them  into  hopeless  torture  for  ever, — (and  if  that  is  not 
hating,  I don’t  know  what  is), — unless  he,  the  preacher,  gets  a 
chance  of  talking  to  them  for  a few  minutes — Why,  I should  like 
Miss  Harvey,  to  put  that  gentleman  upon  a real  fire  for  ten 
minutes,  instead  of  his  comfortable  Sunday’s  dinner,  which  stands 
ready  frying  for  him,  and  which  he  was  going  home  to  eat,  as 
jolly  as  if  all  the  world  was  not  going  to  destruction ; and  there 
let  him  feel  what  fire  was  like,  and  reconsider  his  statements.” 

Grace  looked  up  at  him  no  more : but  walked  on  in  silence, 
pondering  many  things. 

“ Howsoever  that  may  be,  Sir,  tell  me  what  to  do  in  this 
cholera,  and  I will  do  it,  if  I kill  myself  with  work  or  infection!  ” 

“ You  shan’t  do  that.  We  cannot  spare  you  from  Aberalva, 
Grace,”  said  Tom ; “ you  must  save  a few  more  poor  creatures  ere 
you  die,  out  of  the  hands  of  that  Good  Being  who  made  little 
children,  and  love,  and  happiness,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  sun- 
shine, and  the  fruitful  earth ; and  who,  you  say,  redeemed  them 
all  again,  when  they  were  lost,  by  an  act  of  love  which  passes  all 
human  dreams.” 

“ JDo  not  talk  so  !”  cried  Grace.  “ It  frightens  me ; it  puzzles 
me,  and  makes  me  miserable.  Oh,  if  you  would  but  become  a 
Christian !” 

“ And  listen  to  the  Gospel  V 9 

“ Yes — oh  yes  !” 

“ A gospel  means  good  news,  I thought.  When  you  have 
any  to  tell  me,  I will  listen.  Meanwhile,  the  new^s  that  three 
out  of  four  of  those  poor  fellows  down  town  are  going  to  a 
certain  place,  seems  to  me  such  terribly  bad  news,  that  I can’t 
help  fancying  that  it  is  not  the  Gospel  at  all ; and  so  get  on  the 
best  way  I can,  listening  to  the  good  news  about  God  which 
this  grand  old  world,  and  my  microscope,  and  my  books,  tell  me. 
Ho,  Grace,  I have  more  good  news  than  that,  and  I’ll  confess  if 
to  you.” 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


237 


He  paused,  and  Lis  voice  softened. 

“ Say  what  the  preacher  may,  He  must  he  a good  God  who 
makes  such  creatures  as  you,  and  sends  them  into  the  world  to 
comfort  poor  wretches.  Follow  your  own  sweet  heart,  Grace, 
and  torment  yourself  no  more  with  these  dark  dreams  ! ” 

“My  heart?”  cried  she,  looking  down;  “it  is  deceitful  and 
desperately  wicked.” 

“ I wish  mine  were  too,  then,”  said  Tom  : “ hut  it  cannot  he, 
as  long  as  it  is  so  unlike  yours.  How  stop,  Grace,  I want  to 
speak  to  you.” 

There  was  a gate  in  front  of  them,  leading  into  the 
road. 

As  they  came  to  it,  Tom  lingered  with  his  hand  upon  the  top 
bar,  that  Grace  might  stop.  She  did  stop,  half  frightened.  Why 
did  he  call  her  Grace  ? 

“ I wish  to  speak  go  you  on  one  matter,  on  which  I believe  I 
ought  to  have  spoken  long  ago.” 

She  looked  up  at  him,  surprise  in  her  large  eyes ; and  turned 
pale  as  he  went  on. 

“ I ought  long  ago  to  have  begged  your  pardon  for  something 
rude  which  I said  to  you  at  your  own  door.  This  day  has  made 
me  quite  ashamed  of — ” 

But  she  interrupted  him,  quite  wildly,  gasping  for  breath. 

“ The  belt  ? The  belt  ? Oh,  my  God  ! my  God  ! Have  you 
heard  anything  more  ? — anything  more  ? ” 

“ Hot  a word ; but — ” 

To  his  astonishment,  she  heaved  a deep  sigh,  as  if  relieved 
from  a sudden  fear.  His  face  clouded,  and  his  eyebrows  rose. 
Was  she  guilty,  then,  after  all  ? ” 

With  the  quick  eyes  of  love,  she  saw  the  change  ; and  broke 
out  passionately, — 

“ Yes ; suspect  me  ! suspect  me,  if  you  will ! only  give  me 
time ! Send  me  to  prison,  innocent  as  I am — innocent  as  that 
child  there  above — would  God  I were  dying  like  her  ! — Only 
give  me  time  ! 0 misery ! I had  hoped  you  had  forgotten — 
that  it  was  lost  in  the  sea — that — what  am  I saying? — Only 
give  mo  time ! ” — and  she  dropped  on  her  knees  before  him, 
wringing  her  hands. 

“ Miss  Harvey  ! This  is  not  worthy  of  you.  If  you  be  inno- 
cent, as  I don’t  doubt,  what  more  do  you  need — or  I ? ” 

He  took  her  hands,  and  lifted  her  up : but  she  still  kept 
looking  down,  round,  upwards,  like  a hunted  deer,  and  pleading 
in  words  which  seemed  sobbed  out — as  by  some  poor  soul  on 
the  rack — between  choking  spasms  of  agony. 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know, — God  help  me  ! 0 Lord,  help  me  ! I 

will  try  and  find  it — I know  I shall  find  it!  only  have  patience; 


238 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


have  patience  with  me  a little,  and  I know  I shall  bring  it  yon ; 
and  then — and  then  yon  will  forgive  ? — forgive1?” 

And  she  laid  her  hands  npon  his  arms,  and  looked  np  in  his 
face  with  a piteons  smile  of  entreaty. 

She  had  never  looked  so  beautiful  as  at  that  moment.  The 
devil  saw  it ; and  entered  into  the  heart  of  Thomas  Thurnall. 
He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  away  her  tears,  stopped  her 
mouth  with  kisses.  “ Yes  ! I’ll  wait — wait  for  ever,  if  you  will! 
I’ll  lose  another  belt,  for  such  another  look  as  that ! ” 

She  was  bewildered  for  a moment,  poor  fond  wretch,  at  find- 
ing herself  where  she  would  gladly  have  stayed  for  ever : hut 
quickly  she  recovered  her  reason. 

“ Let  me  go  ! ” she  cried,  struggling.  “ This  is  not  right ! 
Let  me  go,  Sir ! ” and  she  tried  to  cover  her  burning  cheeks 
with  her  hands. 

“ I will  not,  Grace  ! I love  you ! I love  you,  I tell  you ! ” 

“You  do  not,  Sir!”  and  she  struggled  still  more  fiercely. 
“ Do  not  deceive  yourself ! Me  you  cannot  deceive  ! Let  me 
go,  I say  ! You  could  not  demean  yourself  to  love  a poor  girl 
like  me  ! ” 

Utterly  losing  his  head,  Tom  ran  on  with  passionate  words. 

“No,  Sir ! you  know  that  I am  not  fit  to  he  your  wife  : and 
do  you  fancy  that  I — ” 

Maddened  now,  Tom  went  on,  ere  he  was  aware,  from  a 
foolish  deed  to  a base  speech. 

“ I know  nothing,  hut  that  I shall  keep  you  in  pawn  for  my 
belt.  Till  that  is  at  least  restored,  you  are  in  my  power,  Grace  ! 
Eememher  that ! ” 

She  thrust  him  away  with  so  sudden  and  desperate  a spasm, 
that  he  was  forced  to  let  her  go.  She  stood  gazing  at  him, 
a trembling  deer  no  longer,  hut  rather  a lioness  at  bay,  her  face 
flashing  beautiful  indignation. 

“ In  your  power ! Yes,  Sir ! My  character,  my  life,  for 
aught  I know  : hut  not  my  soul.  Send  me  to  Bodmin  Gaol 
if  you  will;  hut  offer  no  more  insults  to  a modest  maiden! 
Oh  ! ” — and  her  expression  changed  to  one  of  lofty  sorrow  and 
pity ; — “ Oh  !,  to  find  all  men  alike  at  heart ! After  having 
fancied  you — fancied  you,”  (what  she  had  fancied  him  her 
woman’s  modesty  dare  not  repeat) — “ to  find  you  even  such 
another  as  Mr.  Trebooze  ! ” 

Tom  was  checked.  As  for  mere  indignation,  in  such  cases, 
he  had  seen  enough  of  that  to  trust  it  no  more  than  “ ice  that 
is  one  night  old  : ” but  pity  for  him  was  a weapon,  of  defence  to 
which  he  was  unaccustomed.  And  there  was  no  contempt  in 
her  pity  ; and  no  affectation  either.  Her  voice  was  solemn,  but 
tender,  gently  upbraiding,  like  her  countenance.  Never  had  he 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


239 


felt  Grace’s  mysterious  attraction  so  strong  upon  him ; and  for 
the  first  and  last  time,  perhaps,  for  many  a year,  he  answered 
with  downcast  eyes  of  shame. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Harvey.  I have  been  rude — mad. 
If  you  will  look  in  your  glass  when  you  go  home,  and  have  a 
woman’s  heart  in  you,  you  may  at  least  see  an  excuse  for  me  : 
but  like  Mr.  Trebooze  I am  not.  Forgive  and  forget,  and  let  us 
walk  home  rationally.”  And  he  offered  to  take  her  hand. 

“ Ho  : not  now  ! Hot  till  I can  trust  you,  Sir  ! ” said  she. 
The  words  were  lofty  enough : but  there  was  a profound  melan- 
choly in  their  tone  which  humbled  Tom  still  more.  Was  it 
possible — she  seemed  to  have  hinted  it — that  she  had  thought 
him  a very  grand  personage  till  now,  and  that  he  had  disgraced 
himself  in  her  eyes  ] 

If  a man  had  suspected  Tom  of  such  a feeling,  I fear  he  would 
have  cared  little,  save  how  to  restore  the  balance  by  making  a 
fool  of  the  man  who  fancied  him  a fool : but  no  male  self- 
sufficiency  or  pride  is  proof  against  the  contempt  of  woman ; and 
Tom  slunk  along  by  the  schoolmistress’s  side,  as  if  he  had  been 
one  of  her  naughtiest  school-children.  He  tried,  of  course,  to 
brazen  it  out  to  his  own  conscience.  He  had  done  no  harm, 
after  all ; indeed,  never  seriously  meant  any.  She  was  making  a 
ridiculous  fuss  about  nothing.  It  was  all  part  and  parcel  of  her 
methodistical  cant.  He  dared  say  that  she  was  not  as  prudish 
with  the  methodist  parson.  And  at  that  base  thought  he  paused ; 
for  a flush  of  rage,  and  a strong  desire  on  such  hypothesis  to  slay 
the  said  methodist  parson,  or  any  one  else  who  dared  even  to  look 
sweet  on  Grace,  showed  him  plainly  enough  what  he  had  long 
been  afraid  of,  that  he  was  really  in  love  with  her ; and  that,  as 
he  put  it,  if  she  did  not  make  a fool  of  herself  about  him,  he 
was  but  too  likely  to  end  in  making  a fool  of  himself  about  her. 
However,  he  must  speak,  to  support  his  own  character  as  a man 
of  the  world ; — it  would  never  do  to  knock  under  to  a country 
girl  in  this  way; — she  might  go  and  boast  of  it  all  over  the 
town ; — beside,  foiled  or  not,  he  would  not  give  in  without 
trying  her  mettle  somewhat  further. 

“ Miss  Harvey,  will  you  forgive  me  h ” 

“ I have  forgiven  you.” 

“ Will  you  forget  ] ” 

“ If  I can  ! ” she  said,  with  a marked  expression,  which  signi- 
fied (though,  of  course,  she  did  not  mean  Tom  to  understand  it), 
“ some  of  what  is  past  is  too  precious,  and  some  too  painful,  to 
forget.” 

“ I do  not  ask  you  to  forget  all  which  has  passed  ! ” 

“ I am  afraid  that  there  is  nothing  which  would  be  any  credit 
to  you,  Sir,  to  have  remembered.” 


240 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


“ Credit  or  none/’  said  Tom,  unabashed,  “ do  not  forget  one 
word  that  I said.” 

She  looked  hastily  and  sidelong  round, — “ That  I am  in  your 
power  ? ” 

“ No  ! curse  it ! I wish  I had  bitten  out  my  tongue  before  I 
had  said  that.  No  ! that  I am  in  your  power,  Miss  Harvey.’ 

“ Sir  ! I never  heard  you  say  that ; and  if  you  had,  the  sooner 
anything  so  untrue  is  forgotten  the  better.” 

“ I said  that  I loved  you,  Grace ; and  if  that  does  not  mean 
that — ” 

“ Sir  ! Mr.  Thurnall ! I cannot,  I will  not  hear  ! You  only 
insult  me,  Sir,  by  speaking  thus,  when  you  know  that — that  you 
consider  me — a thief ! ” and  the  poor  girl  burst  into  tears  again. 

“ I do  not ! I do  not ; ” cried  Tom,  growing  really  earnest  at 
the  sight  of  her  sorrow.  “ Did  I not  begin  this  unhappy  talk 
by  begging  your  pardon  for  ever  having  let  such  a thought  cross 
my  mind  ? ” 

“ But  you  do  ! you  do  ! you  told  me  as  much  at  my  own  door ; 
and  I have  seen  it  ever  since,  till  I have  almost  gone  mad  under 
it!” 

“ I will  swear  to  you  by  all  that  is  sacred  that  I do  not ! Oh, 
Grace,  the  first  moment  I saw  you  my  heart  told  me  that  it  was 
impossible ; and  now,  this  afternoon,  as  I listened  to  you  with 

that  sick  girl,  I felt  a wretch  for  ever  having Grace,  I tell 

you,  you  made  me  feel,  for  the  moment,  a better  man  than  I 
ever  felt  in  my  life  before.  A poor  return  I have  made  for  that, 
truly ! ” 

Grace  looked  up  in  his  face  gasping. 

“ Oh,  say  that ! say  that  again.  Oh,  good  Lord,  merciful  Lord, 
at  last ! Oh,  if  you  knew  what  it  was  to  have  even  one  weight 
lifted  off,  among  all  my  heavy  burdens,  and  that  weight  the 
hardest  to  bear.  God  forgive  me  that  it  should  have  been  so  ! 
Oh,  I can  breathe  freely  now  again,  that  I know  I am  not 
suspected  by  you.” 

“By  you?”  Tom  could  not  but  see  what,  after  all,  no 
human  being  can  conceal,  that  Grace  cared  for  him.  And  the 
devil  came  and  tempted  him  once  more  : but  this  time  it  was  in 
vain.  Tom’s  better  angel  had  returned;  Grace’s  tender  guile- 
lessness, which  would  with  too  many  men  only  have  marked  her 
out  as  the  easier  prey,  was  to  him  as  a sacred  shield  before  her 
innocence.  So  noble,  so  enthusiastic,  so  pure ! He  could  not 
play  the  villain  with  that  woman. 

But  there  was  plainly  a mystery.  What  were  the  burdens, 
heavier  even  than  unjust  suspicion,  of  which  she  had  spoken  ? 
There  was  no  harm  in  asking. 

“ But,  Grace — Miss  Harvey — You  will  not  be  angry  with  me 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


241 


if  I ask? — Why  speak  so  often,  as  if  finding  this  money  de- 
pended on  you  alone  ? You  wish  me  to  recover  it,  I know ; and 
if  you  can  counsel  me,  why  not  do  so  ? Why  not  tell  me  whom 
you  suspect  ? ” 

Her  old  wild  terror  returned  in  an  instant.  She  stopped 
short — 

“ Suspect  ? I suspect  ? Oh,  I have  suspected  too  many 
already ! Suspected  till  I began  to  hate  n^  fellow-creatures — 
hate  life  itself,  when  I fancied  that  I saw  ‘ thief  ’ written  on 
every  forehead.  Oh,  do  not  ask  me  to  suspect  any  more  ! ” 

Tom  was  silent. 

“ Oh,”  she  cried,  after  a moment’s  pause.  “ Oh,  that  we  were 
hack  in  those  old  times  I have  read  of,  when  they  used  to  put 
people  to  the  torture  to  make  them  confess  ! ” 

“ Why,  in  Heaven’s  name  ? ” 

“Because  then  I should  have  been  tortured,  and  have  con- 
fessed it,  true  or  false,  in  the  agony,  and  have  been  hanged. 
They  used  to  hang  them  then,  and  put  them  out  of  their  misery ; 
and  I should  have  been  put  out  of  mine,  and  no  one  have  been 
blamed  but  me  for  evermore.” 

“You  forget,”  said  Tom,  lost  in  wonder,  “ that  then  I should 
have  blamed  you,  as  well  as  every  one  else.” 

“ True ; yes,  it  was  a foolish  faithless  word.  I did  not  take  it, 
and  it  would  have  been  no  good  to  my  soul  to  say  I did.  Lies 
cannot  prosper,  cannot  prosper,  Mr.  Thurnall ! ” and  she  stopped 
short  again. 

“ What,  my  dear  Grace  ? ” said  he,  kindly  enough ; for  he 
began  to  fear  that  she  was  losing  her  wits. 

“ I saved  your  life  ! ” 

“ You  did,  Grace.” 

“ Then,  I never  thought  to  ask  for  payment ; but,  oh,  I must 
now.  Will  you  promise  me  one  thing  in  return  % ” 

“ What  you  will,  as  I am  a man  and  a gentleman ; I can  trust 
you  to  ask  nothing  which  is  not  worthy  of  you.” 

Tom  spoke  truth.  He  felt, — perhaps  love  made  him  feel  it  all 
the  more  easily, — that  whatever  was  behind,  he  was  safe  in  that 
woman’s  hands. 

“ Then  promise  me  that  you  will  wait  one  month,  only  one 
month  : ask  no  questions ; mention  nothing  to  any  living  soul. 
And  if,  before  that  time,  I do  not  bring  you  that  belt  back,  send 
me  to  Bodmin  Gaol,  and  let  me  bear  my  punishment.” 

“ I promise,”  said  Tom.  And  the  two  walked  on  again  in 
silence,  till  they  neared  the  head  of  the  village. 

Then  Grace  went  forward,  like  Nausicaa  when  she  left  Ulysses, 
lest  the  townsfolk  should  talk ; and  Tom  sat  down  upon  a bank 
and  watched  her  figure  vanishing  in  the  dusk. 


242 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BA 7, 


Much  he  puzzled,  hunting  up  and  down  in  his  cunning  head 
for  an  explanation  of  the  mystery.  At  last  he  found  one  which 
seemed  to  fit  the  facts  so  well,  that  he  rose  wfith  a whistle 
of  satisfaction,  and  walked  homewards. 

Evidently,  her  mother  had  stolen  the  belt ; and  Grace  was,  if 
not  a repentant  accomplice — for  that  he  could  not  believe, — at 
least  aware  of  the  fact. 

“ Well,  it  is  a hard  knot  for  her  to  untie,  poor  child ; and  on 
the  strength  of  having  saved  my  life,  she  shall  untie  it  her  own 
way.  I can  wait.  I hope  the  money  won’t  he  spent  meanwhile, 
though,  and  the  empty  leather  returned  to  me  when  wanted  no 
longer.  However,  that’s  done  already,  if  done  at  all.  I was  a 
fool  for  not  acting  at  once  ; — a double  fool  for  suspecting  her ! 
Ass  that  I was,  to  take  up  with  a false  scent,  and  throw  myself 
off  the  true  one  ! My  everlasting  unbelief  in  people  has  punished 
itself  this  time.  I might  have  got  a search-warrant  three  months 
ago,  and  had  that  old  witch  safe  in  the  bilboes.  But  no — I might 
not  have  found  it,  after  all,  and  there  would  have  been  only  an 
esclandre  : and  if  I know  that  girl’s  heart,  she  wrould  have  been 
ten  times  more  miserable  for  her  mother  than  for  herself,  so  it’s 
as  well  as  it  is.  Besides,  it’s  really  good  fun  to  watch  how  such 
a pretty  plot  will  work  itself  out ; — as  good  as  a pack  of  harriers 
with  a cold  scent  and  a squatted  hare.  So,  live  and  let  live. 
Only,  Thomas  Thurnall,  if  you  go  for  to  come  for  to  go  for  to 
make  such  an  abominable  ass  of  yourself  with  that  young  lady 
any  more,  like  a miserable  school-boy,  you  will  be  pleased  to 
make  tracks,  and  vanish  out  of  these  parts  for  ever.  Eor  my 
purse  can’t  afford  to  have  you  marrying  a schoolmistress  in  your 
impoverished  old  age ; and  my  character,  which  also  is  my  purse, 
can't  afford  worse/’ 

One  word  of  Grace’s  had  fixed  itself  in  Tom’s  memory.  What, 
did  she  mean  by  “ her  two  ? ” 

He  contrived  to  ask  Willis  that  very  evening. 

“ Oh,  don’t  you  know,  Sir?  She  had  a young  brother 
drowned,  a long  while  ago,  when  she  was  sixteen  or  so.  He 
went  out  fishing  on  the  Sabbath,  with  another  like  him,  and  both 
were  swamped.  Wild  young  lads,  both,  as  lads  will  be.  But 
she,  sweet  maid,  took  it  so  to  heart,  that  she  never  held  qp  her 
head  since  ; nor  will,  I think,  at  times,  to  her  dying  day.” 

“ Humph  ! Was  she  fond  of  the  other  lad,  then?  ” 

“ Sir,”  said  Willis,  “ I don’t  think  it’s  fair  like, — not  decent, 
if  you’ll  excuse  an  old  sailor, — to  talk  about  young  maids’  affairs, 
that  they  wouldn’t  talk  of  themselves,  perhaps  not  even  to 
themselves.  So  I never  asked  any  questions  myself.” 

“ And  think  it  rude  in  me  to  ask  any.  Well,  I believe  you’re 
right,  good  old  gentleman  that  you  are.  What  .a  nob] email 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY.  243 

you’d  have  made,  if  you  had  had  the  luck  to  have  been  horn  in 
that  station  of  life  ! ” 

“ I have  found  too  much  trouble,  in  doing  my  duty  in  my 
humble  place,  to  wish  to  be  in  any  higher  one.” 

“ So  ! ” thought  Tom  to  himself,  “ a girl’s  fancy : but  it  ex- 
plains so  much  in  the  character,  especially  when  the  temperament 
is  melancholic.  However,  to  quote  Solomon  once  more,  ‘ A live 
dog  is  better  than  a dead  lion ; ’ and  I have  not  much  to  fear 
from  a rival  who  has  been  washed  out  of  this  world  ten  years 
since.  Heyday  ! Kival  ! quotha  1 Tom  Thurnall,  you  are  going 
to  make  a fool  of  yourself.  You  must  go,  Sir  ! I warn  you ; 
you  must  flee,  till  you  have  recovered  your  senses.” 

There  appeared  next  morning  in  Tom’s  shop  a new  phenome- 
non. A smart  youth,  dressed  in  what  he  considered  to  be  the 
newest  London  fashion ; but  which  was  really  that  translation  of 
last  year’s  fashion  which  happened  to  be  current  in  the  windows 
of  the  Bodmin  tailors.  Tom  knew  him  by  sight  and  name, — one 
Mr.  Creed,  a squireen  like  Trebooze,  and  an  especial  friend  of 
Trebooze’s,  under  whose  tutelage  he  had  learned  to  smoke  caven- 
dish assiduously  from  the  age  of  fifteen,  thereby  improving  neither 
his  stature,  nor  his  digestion,  his  nerves,  nor  the  intelligence  of 
his  countenance. 

He  entered  with  a lofty  air,  and  paused  awhile  as  he  spoke. 

“ Is  it  possible,”  said  Tom  to  himself,  “ that  Trebooze  has  sent 
me  a challenge  h It  would  be  too  good  fun.  I’ll  wait  and  see.” 
So  he  went  on  rolling  pills. 

“ I say,  Sir,”  quoth  the  youth,  who  had  determined,  as  an 
owner  of  land,  to  treat  the  doctor  duly  de  haut  en  has , and  had 
a vague  notion  that  a liberal  use  of  the  word  “ Sir  ” would  both 
help  thereto,  and  be  consonant  with  professional  style  of  duel 
diplomacy,  whereof  he  had  read  in  novels. 

Tom  turned  slowly,  and  then  took  a long  look  at  him  over  the 
counter  through  half- shut  eye-lids,  with  chin  upraised,  as  if  he 
had  been  suddenly  afflicted  with  short  sight ; and  worked  on 
meanwhile  steadily  at  his  pills. 

“ That  is,  I wish — to  speak  to  you,  Sir — ahem  ! — ” went  on 
Mr.  Creed ; being  gradually  but  surely  discomfited  by  Tom’s 
steady  gaze. 

“ Don’t  trouble  yourself,  Sir : I see  your  case  in  your  face. 
A slight  nervous  affection — will  pass  as  the  digestion  improves. 

I will  make  you  up  a set  of  pills  for  the  night ; but  I should 
advise  a little  ammonia  and  valerian  at  once.  May  I mix  it  ? ” 

“ Sir  ! you  mistake  me,  Sir  ! ” 

“Not  in  the  least ; you  have  brought  me  a challenge  from 
Mr.  Trebooze.” 

“ I have,  Sir  ! ” said  the  youth  with  a grand  air,  at  once 
r 2 


244 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


relieved  by  having  the  awful  words  said  for  him,  and  exalted  by 
the  dignity  of  his  first,  and  perhaps  last,  employment  in  that 
line. 

“ Well,  Sir,”  said  Tom  deliberately,  “ Mr.  Trebooze  does  me 
a kindness  for  which  I cannot  sufficiently  thank  him,  and  you 
also,  as  his  second.  It  is  full  six  months  since  I fought,  and  I 
was  getting  hardly  to  know  myself  again.” 

“ You  will  have  to  fight  now,  Sir ! ” said  the  youth,  trying  to 
brazen  off  by  his  discourtesy  increasing  suspicion  that  he  had 
“ caught  a Tartar.” 

“ Of  course,  of  course.  And  of  course,  too,  I fight  you  after- 
wards.” 

“I — I,  Sir?  I am  Mr.  Trebooze’s  friend,  his  second,  Sir. 
You  do  not  seem  to  understand,  Sir  ! ” 

“ Pardon  me,  young  gentleman,”  said  Tom,  in  a very  quiet, 
determined  voice ; “ it  is  I who  have  a right  to  tell  you  that  you 
do  not  understand  in  such  matters  as  these.  I had  fought  my 
man,  and  more  than  one  of  them,  while  you  were  eating  black- 
berries in  a short  jacket.” 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Sir  ? ” quoth  the  youth  in  fury ; and 
began  swearing  a little. 

“ Simple  fact.  Are  you  not  about  twenty-three  years  old  ? ” 

“ What  is  that  to  you,  Sir  ? ” 

“ No  business  of  mine,  of  course.  You  may  be  growing  into 
your  second  childhood  for  aught  I care  : but  if,  as  I guess,  you 
are  about  twenty-three,  I,  as  I know,  am  thirty-six  : then  I 
fought  my  first  duel  when  you  were  five  years  old,  and  my  tenth, 
I should  say,  when  you  were  fifteen ; at  which  time,  I suppose, 
you  were  not  ashamed  either  of  the  jacket  or  the  blackberries.” 

“ You  will  find  me  a man  now,  Sir,  at  all  events,”  said  Creed, 
justly  wroth  at  what  was,  after  all,  a sophism ; for  if  a man  i3 
not  a man  at  twenty,  he  never  will  be  one. 

“ Tant  mieux.  You  know,  I suppose,  that  as  the  challenged, 
I have  the  choice  of  weapons  ? ” 

“ Of  course,  Sir,”  said  Creed,  in  an  off-hand  generous  tone, 
because  he  did  not  very  clearly  know. 

“ Then,  Sir,  I always  fight  across  a handkerchief.  You  will 
tell  Mr.  Trebooze  so ; he  is,  I really  believe,  a brave  man,  and 
will  accept  the  terms.  You  will  tell  yourself  the  same,  whether 
you  be  a brave  man  or  not.” 

The  youth  lost  the  last  words  in  those  which  went  before 
them.  He  was  no  coward  : would  have  stood  up  to  be  shot  at, 
at  fifteen  paces,  like  any  one  else;  but  the  deliberate  butchery 
of  fighting  across  a handkerchief — 

“ Do  I understand  you,  Sir  ? ” 

“ That  depends  on  whether  you  are  clever  enough,  or  not,  to 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY.  245 

comprehend  your  native  tongue.  Across  a handkerchief,  I say, 
do  you  hear  that  'l  ” And  Tom  rolled  on  at  his  pills. 

“I  do.” 

“ And  when  I have  fought  him,  I tight  you  ! ” And  the  pills 
rolled  steadily  at  the  same  pace. 

“ But — Sir  ] — Why — Sir  ] ” 

“ Because,”  said  Tom,  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  “ because 
you,  calling  yourself  a gentleman,  and  being,  more  shame  for 
you,  one  by  birth,  dare  to  come  here,  for  a foolish  vulgar  super- 
stition called  honour,  to  ask  me,  a quiet  medical  man,  to  go  and 
be  shot  at  by  a man  whom  you  know  to  be  a drunken,  profligate, 
blackguard : simply  because,  as  you  know  as  well  as  I,  I inter- 
fered to  prevent  his  insulting  a poor  helpless  girl : and  in  so 
doing,  was  forced  to  give  him  what  you,  if  you  are  (as  I believe) 
a gentleman,  would  have  given  him  also,  in  my  place.” 

“I  don’t  understand  you,  Sir !”  said  the  lad,  blushing  all  the 
while,  as  one  honestly  conscience-stricken ; for  Tom  had  spoken 
the  exact  truth,  and  he  knew  it. 

“ Don’t  lie,  Sir,  and  tell  me  that  you  don’t  understand ; you 
understand  every  word  which  I have  spoken,  and  you  know  that 
it  is  true.” 

“ Lie  ?” 

“Yes,  lie.  Look  you,  Sir;  I have  no  wish  to  fight — ” 

“ You  will  fight,  though,  whether  you  wish  it  or  not,”  said  the 
youth  with  a hysterical  laugh,  meant  to  be  defiant. 

“ But — I can  snuff  a candle ; I can  split  a bullet  on  a penknife 
at  fifteen  paces.” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  frighten  us  by  boasting  ? We  shall  see 
what  you  can  do  when  you  come  on  the  ground.” 

“Across  a handkerchief:  but  on  no  other  condition;  and, 
unless  you  will  accept  that  condition,  I will  assuredly,  the  next 
time  I see  you,  be  we  where  we  may,  treat  you  as  I treated  your 

friend  Mr.  Treebooze. I’ll  do  it  now  ! Get  out  of  my  shop, 

Sir ! What  do  you  want  here,  interfering  with  my  honest 
business  Vy 

And,  to  the  astonishment  of  Mr.  Trebooze’s  second,  Tom 
vaulted  clean  over  the  counter,  and  rushed  at  him  open-mouthed. 

Sacred  be  the  honour  of  the  gallant  West  country  : but,  “ both 
being  friends,”  as  Aristotle  has  it,  “ it  is  a sacred  duty  to  speak 
the  truth.”  Mr.  Creed  vanished  through  the  open  door. 

“ I rid  myself  of  the  fellow  jollily,”  said  Tom  to  Frank  that 
day,  after  telling  him  the  whole  story.  “And  no  credit  to 
me.  I saw  from  the  minute  he  came  in  there  was  no  fight  in 
him.” 

“ But  suppose  he  had  accepted — or  suppose  Trebooze  accepts 
stiff  r 


246 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BAY. 


“ There  was  my  game — to  frighten  him.  He’ll  take  care  Tre- 
booze  shan’t  fight,  for  he  knows  that  he  must  fight  next.  He’ll 
go  home  and  patch  the  matter  up,  trust  him.  Meanwhile,  the 
oaf  had  not  even  savoir  faire  enough  to  ask  for  my  second. 
Lucky  for  me  ; for  I don’t  know  where  to  have  found  one,  save 
the  Lieutenant ; and  though  he  would  have  gone  out  safe  enough, 
it  would  have  been  a bore  for  the  good  old  fellow.” 

“ And,”  said  Frank,  utterly  taken  aback  by  Tom’s  business-like 
levity,  “ you  would  actually  have  stood  to  shoot,  and  be  shot  at, 
across  a handkerchief  ? ” 

Tom  stuck  out  his  great  chin,  and  looked  at  him  with  one  of 
his  quaint  sidelong  moues. 

“You  are  my  very  good  friend,.  Sir  ::  but  not  my  father- 
confessor.” 

“I  know  that:  but  really — as  a mere  question  of  human 
curiosity  ” — 

“ Oh,  if  you  ask  me  on  the  human  ground,  and  not  on  the 
sacerdotal,  I’ll  tell  you.  I’ve  tried  it  twice,  and  I should  be 
sorry  to  try  it  again;  though  it’s  a very  easy  dodge.  Keep  your 
right  elbow  up — up  to  your  ear — and  the  moment  you  hear  the 
word,  fire.  A high  elbow  and  a cool  heart — that’s  all ; and  that 
wins.” 

“ Wins  ? Good  heavens  ? As  you  are  here  alive  you  must 
have  killed  your  man  ? ” 

“Ho.  I only  shot  my  men  each  through  the  body  ; and  each 
of  them  deserved  it  : but  it  is  an  ugly  chance ; I should  have 
been  sorry  to  try  it  on  that  yokel.  The  boy  may  make  a man 
yet.  And  what’s  more,”  said  Tom,  bursting  into  a great  laugh, 
“ he  will  make  a man,  and  go  down  to  his  fathers  in  peace,  quant 
cb  moi ; and  so  will  that  wretched  Trebooze.  For  I’ll  bet  you 
my  head  to  a China  orange,  I hear  no  more  of  this  matter ; and 
don’t  even  lose  Trebooze’s  custom.” 

“ Upon  my  word,  I envy  your  sanguine  temperament ! ” 

“ Mr.  Headley,  I shall  quietly  make  my  call  at  Trebooze 
to-morrow,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  What  will  you  bet  me 
that  I am  not  received  as  usual  % ” 

“ I never  bet,”  said  Frank. 

“ Then  you  do  well.  It  is  a foolish  and  a dirty  trick  ; playing 
with  edge  tools,  and  cutting  one’s  own  fingers,  nevertheless,  I 
speak  truth,  as  you  will  see.” 

“You  are  a most  extraordinary  man.  All  this  is  so  contrary 
to  your  usual  caution.” 

“ When  you  are  driven  against  the  ropes,  ‘ hit  out  ’ is  the  old 
rule  of  Fistiana  and  common  sense.  It  is  an  extreme  bore  : all 
the  more  reason  for  showing  such  an  ugly  front,  as  to  give  people 
no  chance  of  its  happening  again.  Hothing  so  dangerous  as 


THE  DOCTOR  AT  BXY.  247 

half- measures,  Headley.  4 Eesist  the  devil,  and  he  will  flee  from 
you,’  your  creed  says.  Mine  only  translates  it  into  practice.” 

44  I have  no  liking  for  half-measures  myself/’ 

44  Did  you  ever,”  said  Tom,  44  hear  the  story  of  the  two  Sand- 
hurst broomsquires  ? ” 

44  Broomsquires  ? ” 

44  So  we  call,  in  Berkshire,  squatters  on  the  moor  who  live  by 
tying  heath  into  brooms.  Two  of  them  met  in  Beading  market 
once,  and  fell  out  : — 

44  4 How  ever  do  you  manage  to  sell  your  brooms  for  three  half- 
pence ? I steals  the  heth,  and  I steals  the  binds,  and  I steals 
the  handles  : and  yet  I can’t  afoord  to  sell  ’em  under  twopence.’ 

4 4 4 Ah,  but  you  see,’  says  the  other,  4 1 steals  mine  ready 
made.’ 

44  Moral — If  you’re  going  to  do  a thing,  do  it  outright.” 

That  very  evening,  Tom  came  in  again. 

44  Well ; I’ve  been  to  Trebooze.” 

44  And  fared,  how  ?” 

44  Just  as  I warned  you.  Inquired  into  his  symptoms ; pre- 
scribed for  his  digestion — if  he  goes  on  as  he  is  doing,  he  will 
will  soon  have  none  left  to  prescribe  for ; and,  finally,  plastered, 
with  a sublime  generosity,  the  nose  which  my  own  knuckles  had 
contused.” 

44  Impossible  ! you  are  the  most  miraculously  impudent  of 
men ! ” 

44  Pish ! simple  common  sense.  I knew  that  Mrs.  Trebooze 
would  suspect  that  the  world  had  heard  of  his  mishap,  and  took 
care  to  let  her  know  that  I knew,  by  coming  up  to  inquire  for 
him.” 

44  Gui  bono  V ’ 

44  Power.  To  have  them,  or  any  one,  a little  more  in  my 
power.  Hext,  I knew  that  he  dared  not  fly  out  at  me,  for  fear  I 
should  tell  Mrs.  Trebooze  what  he  had  been  after — you  see  ? 
Ah,  it  was  delicious  to  have  the  great  oaf  sitting  sulking  under 
my  fingers,  longing  to  knock  my  head  off,  and  I plastering  away, 
with  words  of  deepest  astonishment  and  condolence.  I verily 
believe  that,  before  we  parted,  I had  persuaded  him  that  his 
black  eye  proceeded  entirely  from  his  having  run  up  against  a 
tree  in  the  dark.” 

44  Well,”  said  Prank,  half  sadly,  though  enjoying  the  joke  in 
spite  of  himself,  44 1 cannot  help  thinking  it  would  have  been  a 
fit  moment  for  giving  the  poor  wretch  a more  solemn  lesson.” 

44  My  dear  Sir, — a good  licking — and  he  had  one,  and  some- 
thing over — is  the  best  lesson  for  that  manner  of  biped.  That’s 
the  way  to  school  him  : but  as  we  are  on  lessons,  I’ll  give  you  a 
hint.” 


24S 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


“ Go  on,  model  of  self-sufficiency  !”  said  Frank. 

“ Scoff  at  me  if  you  will,  I am  proof.  But  hearken — you 
mustn’t  turn  out  that  schoolmistress.  She’s  an  angel,  and  I 
know  it ; and  if  I say  so  of  any  human  being,  you  may  he  sure 
I have  pretty  good  reasons.” 

“ I am  beginning  to  be  of  your  mind  myself,”  said  Frank. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 

The  middle  of  August  is  come  at  last ; and  with  it  the  solemn 
day  on  which  Frederick  Yiscount  Scoutbush  may  be  expected  to 
revisit  the  home  of  his  ancestors.  Elsley  has  gradually  made  up 
his  mind  to  the  inevitable,  with  a stately  sulkiness : and  comforts 
himself,  as  the  time  draws  near,  with  the  thought  that,  after  all, 
his  brother-in-law  is  not  a very  formidable  personage. 

But  to  the  population  of  Aberalva  in  general,  the  coming  event 
is  one  of  awful  jubilation.  The  shipping  is  all  decked  with  flags; 
all  the  Sunday  clothes  have  been  looked  out,  and  many  a yard 
of  new  ribbon  and  pound  of  bad  powder  bought ; there  have 
been  arrangements  for  a procession,  which  could  not  be  got  up ; 
for  a speech  which  nobody  would  undertake  to  pronounce ; and, 
lastly,  for  a dinner,  about  which  last  there  was  no  hanging  back. 
Yea,  also,  they  have  hired  from  Carcarrow  Church-town,  sackbut, 
psaltery,  dulcimer,  and  all  kinds  of  music  ; for  Frank  has  put 
down  the  old  choir  band  at  Aberalva, — another  of  his  mistakes, 
— and  there  is  but  one  fiddle  and  a clarionet  now  left  in  all  the 
town.  So  the  said  town  waits  all  the  day  on  tiptoe,  ready  to 
worship,  till  out  of  the  soft  brown  haze  the  stately  Waterwitch 
comes  sliding  in,  like  a white  ghost,  to  fold  her  wings  in  Aber- 
alva bay. 

And  at  that  sight  the  town  is  all  astir.  Fishermen  shake 
themselves  up  out  of  their  mid-day  snooze,  to  admire  the  beauty, 
as  she  slips  on  and  on  through  water  smooth  as  glass,  her  hull 
hidden  by  the  vast  curve  of  the  balloon-jib,  and  her  broad  wings 
boomed  out  alow  and  aloft,  till  it  seems  marvellous  how  that 
vast  screen  does  not  topple  headlong,  instead  of  floating  (as  it 
seems)  self-supporting  above  its  image  in  the  mirror.  Women 
hurry  to  put  on  their  best  bonnets  ; the  sexton  toddles  up  with 
the  church  key  in  his  hand,  and  the  ringers  at  his  heels ; the 
Coast-guard  Lieutenant  bustles  down  to  the  Manby’s  mortar, 
which  he  has  hauled  out  in  readiness  on  the  pebbles.  Old  Willis 
hoists  a flag  before  his  house,  and  half-a-dozen  merchant  skippers 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATER  WITCH. 


249 


do  the  same.  Bang  goes  the  harmless  mortar,  burning  the  British 
nation’s  powder  without  leave  or  licence ; and  all  the  rocks  and 
woods  catch  up  the  echo,  and  kick  it  from  cliff  to  cliff,  playing 
at  football  with  it  till  its  breath  is  beaten  out ; a rolling  fire  of 
old  muskets  and  bird-pieces  crackles  along  the  shore,  and  in  five 
minutes  a poor  lad  has  blown  a ramrod  through  his  hand.  Never 
mind,  lords  do  not  visit  Penalva  every  day.  Out  burst  the  bells 
above  with  merry  peal ; Lord  Scoutbush  and  the  Waterwitch 
are  duly  “ rung  in”  to  the  home  of  his  lordship’s  ancestors ; and 
he  is  received,  as  he  scrambles  up  the  pier  steps  from  his  boat, 
by  the  Curate,  the  Churchwardens,  the  Lieutenant,  and  old 
Tardrew,  backed  by  half-a-dozen  ancient  sons  of  Anak,  lineal 
descendants  of  the  free  fishermen  to  whom  six  hundred  years 
before,  St.  Just  of  Penalva  did  grant  privileges  hard  to  spell, 
and  harder  to  understand,  on  the  condition  of  receiving,  when- 
soever he  should  land  at  the  quay  head,  three  brass  farthings 
from  the  “ free  fishermen  of  Aberalva.” 

Scoutbush  shakes  hands  with  Curate,  Lieutenant,  Tardrew, 
Churchwardens  ; and  then  come  forward  the  three  farthings,  in 
an  ancient  leather  purse. 

“ Hope  your  lordship  will  do  us  the  honour  to  shake  hands 
with  us  too ; we  are  your  lordship’s  free  fishermen,  as  we  have 
been  your  forefathers’,”  says  a magnificent  old  man,  gracefully* 
acknowledging  the  feudal  tie,  while  he  claims  the  exemption. 

Little  Scoutbush,  who  is  the  kindest-hearted  of  men,  clasps 
the  great  brown  fist  in  his  little  white  one,  and  shakes  hands 
heartily  with  every  one  of  them,  saying, — “ If  your  forefathers 
were  as  much  taller  than  mine,  as  you  are  than  me,  gentlemen, 
I shouldn’t  wonder  if  they  took  their  own  freedom,  without  ask- 
ing his  leave  for  it ! ” 

A lord  who  begins  his  progress  with  a jest ! That  is  the  sort 
of  aristocrat  to  rule  in  Aberalva  ! And  all  agree  that  evening,  at 
the  Mariners’  Rest,  that  his  lordship  is  as  nice  a young  gentleman 
as  ever  trod  deal  board,  and  deserves  such  a yacht  as  he’s  got,  and 
long  may  he  sail  her  ! 

How  easy  it  is  to  buy  the  love  of  men  ! Gold  will  not  do  it : 
but  there  is  a little  angel,  may  be,  in  the  corner  of  every  man’s 
eye,  who  is  worth  more  than  gold,  and  can  do  it  free  of  all  charges : 
unless  a man  drives  him  out,  and  “ hates  his  brother ; and  so 
walks  in  darkness ; not  knowing  whither  he  goeth,”  but  running 
full  butt  against  men’s  prejudices,  and  treading  on  their  corns, 
till  they  knock  him  down  in  despair — and  all  just  because  he 
will  not  open  his  eyes,  and  use  the  light  which  comes  by  common 
human  good-nature ! 

Presently  Tom  hurries  up,  having  been  originally  one  of  the 
deputation,  but  kept  by  the  necessity  of  binding  up  the  three 


250 


THE  CRUISE  OP  THE  WATERWITCH. 


fingers  which  the  ramrod  had  spared  to  poor  Jem  Burman’s  hand. 
He  bows,  and  the  Lieutenant — who  (Frank  being  a little  shy) 
acts  as  her  Majesty’s  representative — introduces  him  as  “ deputy 
medical  man  to  our  district  of  the  union,  Sir  : Mr.  Thurnall.” 

“ Dr.  Iieale  was  to  have  been  here,  by  the  bye.  Where  is  Dr. 
Heale  ? ” says  some  one. 

“ Yery  sorry,  my  lord;  I can  answer  for  him — professional 
calls,  I don’t  doubt — nobody  more  devoted  to  your  lordship.” 
One  need  not  inquire  where  Dr.  Heale  was  : but  if  elderly  men 
will  drink  much  brandy- and- water  in  hot  summer  days,  after  a 
heavy  early  dinner,  then  will  those  men  be  too  late  for  deputa- 
tions and  for  more  important  employments. 

“ Never  mind  the  Doctor,  dare  say  he’s  asleep  after  dinner ; 
do  him  good ! ” says  the  Viscount,  hitting  the  mark  with  a ran- 
dom shot ; and  thereby  raising  his  repute  for  sagacity  immensely 
with  his  audience,  who  laugh  outright. 

u Ah  ! Is  it  so,  then?  But — Mr.  Thurnall,  I think  you  said? 
— I am  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Sir.  I have  heard  your 
name  often  : you  are  my  friend  Mellot’s  old  friend,  are  you  not  ?” 
“ I am  a very  old  friend  of  Claude  Mellot’s.” 

“ Well,  and  there  he  is  on  board,  and  will  be  delighted  to  do 
the  honours  of  my  yacht  to  you  whenever  you  like  to  visit  her. 
You  and  I must  know  each  other  better,  Sir.” 

Tom  bows  low — his  lordship  does  him  too  much  honour  : the 
cunning  fellow  knows  that  his  fortune  is  made  in  Aberalva,  if  he 
choses  to  work  it  out : but  he  humbly  slips  into  the  rear,  for 
Frank  has  to  be  supported,  not  being  over  popular ; and  the 
Lieutenant  may  “ turn  crusty,”  unless  he  has  his  lordship  to 
himself,  before  the  gaze  of  assembled  Aberalva. 

Scoutbush  progresses  up  the  street,  bowing  right  and  left,  and 
stopped  half-a-dozen  times  by  red-cloaked  old  women,  who  curtsey 
under  his  nose,  and  will  needs  inform  him  how  they  knew  his 
grandfather,  or  nursed  his  uncle,  or  how  his  “ dear  mother,  God 
rest  her  soul,  gave  me  this  very  cloak  as  I have  on,”  and  so  forth ; 
till  Scoutbush  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  they  are  a very  loving 
and  loveable  set  of  people — as  indeed  they  are — and  his  heart 
smites  him  somewhat  for  not  having  seen  more  of  them  in  past 
years. 

No  sooner  is  Thurnall  released,  than  he  is  off  to  the  yacht  as 
fast  as  oars  can  take  him,  and  in  Claude’s  arms. 

“ Now  ! ” (after  all  salutations  and  inquiries  have  been  gone 
through,)  “let  me  introduce  you  to  Major  Campbell.”  And  Tom 
was  presented  to  a tall  and  thin  personage,  who  sat  at  the  cabin 
table,  bending  over  a microscope. 

“ Excuse  my  rising,”  said  he,  holding  out  a left  hand,  for  the 
right  was  busy.  “ A single  jar  will  give  me  ten  minutes’  work 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATER  WITCH 


251 


to  do  again.  I am  delighted  to  meet  you : Mellot  has  often 
spoken  to  me  of  you  as  a man  who  has  seen  more,  and  faced 
death  more  carelessly,  than  most  men.” 

“ Mellot  flatters,  Sir.  Whatsoever  I have  done,  I have  given 
up  being  careless  about  death ; for  I have  some  one  beside  my- 
self to  live  for.” 

“ Married  at  last?  has  Diogenes  found  his  Aspasia?”  cried 
Claude. 

Tom  did  not  laugh. 

“ Since  my  brothers  died,  Claude,  the  old  gentleman  has  only 
me  to  look  to.  You  seem  to  be  a naturalist,  Sir.” 

“ A dabbler,”  said  the  Major,  with  eye  and  hand  still 
busy. 

“ I ought  not  to  begin  our  acquaintance  by  doubting  your 
word  : but  these  things  are  no  dabbler’s  work ;”  and  Tom  pointed 
to  some  exquisite  photographs  of  minute  corallines,  evidently 
taken  under  the  microscope. 

“ They  are  Mellot’s.” 

“ Mellot  turned  man  of  science  ? Impossible  ! ” 

“No;  only  photographer.  I am  tired  of  painting  nature 
clumsily,  and  then  seeing  a sun-picture  out-do  all  my  efforts — so 
I am  turned  photographer,  and  have  made  a vow  against  painting 
for  three  years  and  a day.” 

“ Why,  the  photographs  only  give  you  light  and  shade.” 

“ They  will  give  you  colour,  too,  before  seven  years  are  over — 
and  that  is  more  than  I can  do,  or  any  one  else.  No ; I yield  to 
the  new  dynasty.  The  artist’s  occupation  is  gone  henceforth, 
and  the  painter’s  studio,  like  4 all  charms,  must  fly,  at  the  mere 
touch  of  cold  philosophy.’  So  Major  Campbell  prepares  the 
charming  little  cockyoly  birds,  and  I call  in  the  sun  to  immortalize 
them.” 

“ And  perfectly  you  are  succeeding  ! They  are  quite  new  to 
me,  recollect.  When  I left  Melbourne,  the  art  had  hardly  risen 
there  above  guinea  portraits  of  bearded  desperadoes,  a nugget  in 
one  hand  and  a 50 1.  note  in  the  other  : but  this  is  a new,  and 
what  a forward  step  for  science  ! ” 

“You  are  a naturalist,  then  ?”  said  Campbell,  looking  up  with 
interest. 

“ All  my  profession  are,  more  or  less,”  said  Tom,  carelessly ; 
“ and  I have  been . lucky  enough  here  to  fall  on  untrodden 
ground,  and  have  hunted  up  a few  sea-monsters  this  summer.” 

“ Eeally  % You  can  tell  one  where  to  search  then,  and  where 
to  dredge,  I hope.  I have  set  my  heart  on  a fortnight’s  work 
here,  and  have  been  dreaming  at  night,  like  a child  before  a 
Twelfth-night  party,  of  all  sorts  of  impossible  hydras,  gorgonS; 
and  chimaeras  dire,  fished  up  from  your  western  deeps.” 


252 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


“ I have  none  of  them ; hut  I can  give  you  Turbinolia  Milletiana 
and  Zoanthus  Couchii.  I have  a party  of  the  last  gentlemen 
alive  on  shore.” 

The  Major’s  face  worked  with  almost  childish  delight. 

“ But  I shall  he  robbing  you.” 

“ They  cost  me  nothing,  my  dear  Sir.  I did  very  well,  more- 
over, without  them,  for  five-and-thirty  years ; and  I may  do 
equally  well  for  five-and-thirty  more.” 

“I  ought  to  he  able  to  say  the  same,  surely,”  answered  the 
Major,  composing  his  face  again,  and  rising  carefully.  “ I have 
to  thank  you,  exceedingly,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your  prompt  gene- 
rosity : hut  it  is  better  discipline  for  a man,  in  many  ways,  to 
find  things  for  himself  than  to  have  them  put  into  his  hands. 
So,  with  a thousand  thanks,  you  shall  let  me  see  if  I can  dredge 
a Turbinolia  for  myself.” 

This  was  spoken  with  so  sweet  and  polished  a modulation  and 
yet  so  sadly  and  severely  withal,  that  Tom  looked  at  the  speaker 
with  interest. 

He  was  a very  tall  and  powerful  man,  and  would  have  been  a 
very  handsome  man,  both  in  face  and  figure,  but  for  the  high 
cheekbone,  long  neck,  and  narrow  shoulders,  so  often  seen  north 
of  Tweed.  His  brow  was  very  high  and  full ; his  eyes — grave, 
but  very  gentle,  with  large  drooping  eyelids — were  buried  under 
shaggy  grey  eyebrows.  His  mouth  was  gentle  as  his  eyes  ; but 
compressed,  perhaps  by  the  habit  of  command,  perhaps  by  secret 
sorrow ; for  of  that,  too,  as  well  as  of  intellect  and  magnanimity, 
Thurnall  thought  he  could  discern  the  traces.  His  face  was 
bronzed  by  long  exposure  to  the  sun ; his  close-cut  curls,  which 
had  once  been  auburn,  were  fast  turning  white,  though  his 
features  looked  those  of  a man  under  five-and-forty ; his  cheeks 
were  as  smooth  shaven  as  his  chin.  A right,  self-possessed, 
valiant  soldier  he  looked  ; one  who  could  be  very  loving  to 
little  innocents,  and  very  terrible  to  full-grown  knaves. 

“ You  are  practising  at  self-denial,  as  usual,”  said  Claude. 

“ Because  I may,  at  any  moment,  have  to  exercise  it  in  earnest. 
Mr.  Thurnall,  can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  this  little  glass  arrow, 
which  I just  found  shooting  about  in  the  sweeping  net  ] ” 

Tom  did  know  the  wonderful  little  link  between  the  fish  and 
the  insect ; and  the  two  chatted  over  its  strange  form,  till  the 
boat  returned  to  take  them  ashore. 

“ Do  you  make  any  stay  here  ]” 

“ I purpose  to  spend  a fortnight  here  in  my  favourite  pursuit. 
I must  draw  on  your  kindness  and  knowledge  of  the  place  to 
point  me  out  lodgings.” 

Lodgings,  as  it  befell,  were  to  be  found,  and  good  ones,  close  to 
the  beach,  and  away  from  the  noise  of  the  harbour,  on  Mrs. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


253 


Harvey’s  first  floor ; for  the  local  preacher,  who  generally  occupied 
them,  was  away. 

u But  Major  Campbell  might  dislike  the  noise  of  the  school  ? ” 

“ The  school  ? What  better  music  for  a lonely  old  bachelor 
than  children’s  voices  2 ” 

So,  by  sunset  the  Major  was  fairly  established  over  Mrs. 
Harvey’s  shop.  It  was  not  the  place  which  Tom  would  have 
^chosen ; he  was  afraid  of  “ running  over  ” poor  Grace,  if  he 
came  in  and  out  as  often  as  he  could  have  wished.  Nevertheless, 
he  accepted  the  Major’s  invitation  to  visit  him  that  very 
evening. 

“ I cannot  ask  you  to  dinner  yet,  Sir ; for  my  menage  will  be 
hardly  settled  : but  a cup  of  coffee,  and  an  exceedingly  good 
cigar,  I think  my  establishment  may  furnish  you  by  seven 
o’clock  to-night ; — if  you  think  them  worth  walking  down 
for.” 

Tom,  of  course,  said  something  civil,  and  made  his  appearance 
in  due  time.  He  found  the  coffee  ready,  and  the  cigars  also  ; 
but  the  Major  was  busy,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  unpacking  and 
arranging  jars,  nets,  microscopes,  and  what  not  of  scientific 
lumber ; and  Tom  proffered  his  help. 

“ I am  ashamed  to  make  use  of  you  the  first  moment  that  you 
become  my  guest.” 

“ I shall  enjoy  the  mere  handling  of  your  tackle,”  said  Tom ; 
and  began  breaking  the  tenth  commandment  over  almost  every 
article  he  touched ; for  everything  was  first-rate  of  its  kind. 

“ You  seem  to  have  devoted  money,  as  well  as  thought,  plen- 
tifully to  the  pursuit.” 

“ I have  little  else  to  which  to  devote  either ; and  more  of 
both  than  is,  perhaps,  safe  for  me.” 

“I  should  hardly  complain  of  a superfluity  of  thought,  if 
superfluity  of  money  was  the  condition  of  it.” 

“ Pray  understand  me.  I am  no  Dives ; but  I have  learned 
to  want  so  little,  that  I hardly  know  how  to  spend  the  little 
which  I have.” 

“ I should  hardly  have  called  that  an  unsafe  state.” 

“ The  penniless  Faquir  who  lives  on  chance  handfuls  of  rice 
has  his  dangers,  as  well  as  the  rich  Parsee  who  has  his  ventures 
out  from  Madagascar  to  Canton.  Yes,  I have  often  envied  the 
schemer,  the  man  of  business,  almost  the  man  of  pleasure ; their 
many  wants  at  least  absorb  them  in  outward  objects,  instead  of 
leaving  them  too  easily  satisfied,  to  sink  in  upon  themselves,  and 
waste  away  in  useless  dreams.” 

“ You  found  out  the  best  cure  for  that  malady  when  you  took 
up  the  microscope  and  the  collecting-box.” 

“ So  I fancied  once.  I took  up  natural  history  in  India  years 


254 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


ago  to  drive  away  thought,  as  other  men  might  take  to  opium, 
or  to  brandy-pawnee  : but,  like  them,  it  has  become  a passion 
now  and  a tyranny ; and  I go  on  hunting,  discovering,  wonder- 
ing, craving  for  more  knowledge  ; and — cui  bono  ? I sometimes 
ask—” 

“ Why,  this  at  least,  Sir ; that,  without  such  men  as  you,  who 
work  for  mere  love,  Science  would  be  now  fifty  years  behind 
her  present  standing-point ; and  we  doctors  should  not  know  a 
thousand  important  facts,  which  you  have  been  kind  enough  to 
tell  us,  while  we  have  not  time  to  find  them  out  for  ourselves.” 

“ Sic  vos  non  vobis — ” 

“ Yes,  you  have  the  work,  and  we  have  the  pay;  which  is  a 
very  fair  division  of  labour,  considering  the  world  we  live  in.” 

“ And  have  you  been  skilful  enough  to  make  science  pay  you 
here,  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  little  world  as  that  of  Aberalva 
must  be  ? ” 

“ She  is  a good  stalking-horse  anywhere ;”  and  Tom  detailed, 
with  plenty  of  humour,  the  effect  of  his  microscope  and  his  lec- 
ture on  the  drops  of  water.  But  his  wit  seemed  so  much  lost  on 
Campbell,  that  he  at  last  stopped  almost  short,  not  quite  sure 
that  he  had  not  taken  a liberty. 

“ hfo ; go  on,  I beg  you ; and  do  not  fancy  that  I am  not 
interested  and  amused  too,  because  my  laughing  muscles  are  a 
little  stiff  from  want  of  use.  Perhaps,  too,  I am  apt  to  take 
things  too  much  au  grand  serieux  ; but  I could  not  help  think- 
ing, while  you  were  speaking,  how  sad  it  was  that  people  were 
utterly  ignorant  of  matters  so  vitally  necessary  to  health.” 

“And  I,  perhaps,  ought  not  to  jest  over  the  subject : but, 
indeed,  with  cholera  staring  us  in  the  face  here,  I must  indulge 
in  some  emotion ; and  as  it  is  unprofessional  to  weep,  I must 
laugh  as  long  as  I dare.” 

The  Major  dropped  his  coffee-cup  upon  the  floor,  and  looked 
at  Thurnall  with  so  horrified  a gaze,  that  Tom  could  hardly 
believe  him  to  be  the  same  man.  Then  recollecting  himself,  lie 
darted  down  upon  the  remains  of  his  cup  : and  looking  up 
again — “A  thousand  pardons;  but — did  I hear  you  aright? 
cholera  staring  us  in  the  face?” 

“How  can  it  be  otherwise?  It  is  drawing  steadily  on  from 
the  eastward  week  by  week ; and,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
town,  nothing  but  some  miraculous  caprice  of  Dame  Fortune’s 
can  deliver  us.” 

“Don’t  talk  of  Fortune,  Sir!  at  such  a moment.  Talk  of 
God ! ” said  the  Major,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  pacing  th6 
room.  “ It  is  too  horrible  ! Intolerable  ! When  do  you  expect 
it  here  ? ” 

“ Within  the  month,  perhaps, — hardly  before.  I should  have 


THE  CRUISE  OP  THE  WATERW1TCH.  255 

warned  you  of  the  danger,  I assure  you,  had  I not  understood 
from  you  that  you  were  only  going  to  stay  a fortnight.” 

The  Major  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

44  Do  you  fancy  that  I am  afraid  for  myself1?  No  ; hut  the 
thought  of  its  coming  to — to  the  poor  people  in  the  town,  you 
know.  It  is  too  dreadful.  I have  seen  it  in  India — among  my 
own  men — among  the  natives.  Good  heavens,  I never  shall 
forget — and  to  meet  the  fiend  again  here,  of  all  places  in  the 
world  ! I fancied  it  so  clean  and  healthy,  swept  by  fresh  sea- 
breezes.” 

44  And  by  nothing  else.  A half-hour’s  walk  round  would 
convince  you,  Sir;  I only  wish  that  you  could  persuade  his 
lordship  to  accompany  you.” 

44  Scoutbush  ? Of  course  he  will, — he  shall, — he  must.  Good 
heavens  ! whose  concern  is  it  more  than  his  1 You  think,  then, 
that  there  is  a chance  of  staving  it  off — by  cleansing,  I mean  ? ” 

44  If  we  have  heavy  rains  during  the  next  week  or  two,  yes. 
If  this  drought  last,  better  leave  ill  alone ; we  shall  only  pro- 
voke the  devil  by  stirring  him  up.” 

44  You  speak  confidently,”  said  the  Major,  gradually  regaining 
his  own  self-possession,  as  he  saw  Tom  so  self-possessed.  44  Have 
you — allow  me  to  ask  so  important  a question — have  you  seen 
much  of  cholera  ? ” 

44 1 have  worked  through  three.  At  Paris,  at  St.  Petersburgh, 
and  in  the  West  Indies  : and  I have  been  thinking  up  my  old 
experience  for  the  last  six  weeks,  foreseeing  what  would  come.” 

44 1 am  satisfied,  Sir ; perhaps  I ought  to  ask  your  pardon  for 
the  question.” 

44  Not  at  all.  How  can  you  trust  a man,  unless  you  know 
him  ? ” 

44  And  you  expect  it  within  the  month  h You  shall  go  with 
me  to  Lord  Scoutbush  to-morrow,  and — and  now  we  will  talk  of 
something  more  pleasant.”  And  he  began  again  upon  the 
zoophites. 

Tom,  as  they  chatted  on,  could  not  help  wondering  at  the 
Major’s  unexpected  passion;  and  could  not  help  remarking,  also, 
that  in  spite  of  his  desire  to  be  agreeable,  and  to  interest  his 
guest  in  his  scientific  discoveries,  he  was  yet  distraught,  and 
full  of  other  thoughts.  What  could  be  the  meaning  of  it  ? Was 
it  mere  excess  of  human  sympathy?  The  countenance  hardly 
betokened  that : but  still,  who  can  trust  altogether  the  expres- 
sion of  a weather-hardened  visage  of  forty-five  ? So  the  Doctor 
&3t  it  down  to  tenderness  of  heart,  till  a fresh  vista  opened 
on  him. 

Major  Campbell,  he  soon  found,  was  as  fond  of  insects  as  of 
Bea-monsters  : and  he  began  inquiring  about  the  woods,  the 


256 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


heaths,  the  climate  ; which  seemed  to  the  Doctor,  for  a long 
time,  to  mean  nothing  more  than  the  question  which  he  put 
plainly,  “Where  have  I a chance  of  rare  insects]”  But  he 
seemed,  after  a while,  to  be  trying  to  learn  the  geography  of  the 
parish  in  detail,  and  especially  of  the  ground  round  Vavasour’s 
house.  “ However,  it’s  no  business  of  mine/’  thought  Thurnall, 
and  told  him  all  he  wanted,  till — 

“ Then  the  house  lies  quite  in  the  bottom  of  the  glen  ] Is 
there  a good  fall  to  the  stream — for  a stream  I suppose  there  is  ]” 
Thurnall  shook  his  head.  “Cold  boggy  stewponds  in  the 
garden,  such  as  our  ancestors  loved,  damming  up  the  stream. 
They  must  needs  have  fish  in  Lent,  we  know;  and  paid  the 
penalty  of  it  by  ague  and  fever.” 

“ Stewponds  damming  up  the  stream  ] Scoutbush  ought  to 
drain  them  instantly  ! ” said  the  Major,  half  to  himself.  “ But 
still  the  house  lies  high — with  regard  to  the  town,  I mean.  No 
chance  of  malaria  coming  up  ] ” 

“ Upon  my  word,  Sir,  as  a professional  man,  that  is  a thing 
that  I dare  not  say.  The  chances  are  not  great — the  house  is 
two  hundred  yards  from  the  nearest  cottage  : but  if  there  be  an 
east  wind — ” 

“ I cannot  bear  this  any  longer.  It  is  perfect  madness  ! ” 

“ I trust,  Sir,  that  you  do  not  think  that  I have  neglected  the 
matter.  I have  pointed  it  all  out,  I assure  you,  to  Mr.  Vavasour.” 
“ And  it  is  not  altered  ] ” 

“ I believe  it  is  to  be  altered — that  is — the  truth  is,  Sir,  that 
Mr.  Vavasour  shrinks  so  much  from  the  very  notion  of  cholera, 
that — ” 

“ That  he  does  not  like  to  do  anything  which  may  look  like 
believing  in  its  possibility  ] ” 

“ He  says,”  quoth  Tom,  parrying  the  question,  but  in  a some- 
what dry  tone,  “that  he  is  afraid  of  alarming  Mrs.  Vavasour  and 
the  servants.” 

The  Major  said  something  under  his  breath,  which  Tom  did 
not  catch,  and  then,  in  an  appeased  tone  of  voice — 

“Well,  that  is  at  least  a fault  on  the  right  side.  Mrs* 
Vavasour’s  brother,  as  owner  of  the  place,  is  of  course  the  proper 
person  to  make  the  house  fit  for  habitation.”  And  he  relapsed 
into  silence,  while  Thurnall,  who  suspected  more  than  met  the 
ear,  rose  to  depart. 

“ Are  you  going  ? It  is  not  late;  not  ten  o’clock  yet.” 

“ A medical  man,  who  may  be  called  up  at  any  moment,  must 
make  sure  of  his  ‘ beauty  sleep.’  ” 

“ I will  walk  with  you,  and  smoke  my  last  cigar.” 

So  they  went  out,  and  up  to  Heale’s.  Tom  went  in  : but  he 
observed  that  his  companion,  after  standing  awhile  in  the  street 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH.  257 

irresolutely,  went  on  up  the  hill,  and,  as  far  as  he  could  see, 
turned  up  the  lane  to  Vavasour’s. 

“ A mystery  here,”  thought  he,  as  he  put  matters  to-rights  in 
the  surgery  ere  going  upstairs.  “ A mystery  which  I may  as 
well  fathom.  It  may  he  of  use  to  poor  Tom,  as  most  other 
mysteries  are.  That  is,  though,  if  I can  do  it  honourably ; for 
the  man  is  a gallant  gentleman.  I like  him,  and  I am  inclined 
to  trust  him.  Whatsoever  his  secret  is,  I don’t  think  that  it  is 
one  which  he  need  be  ashamed  of.  Still,  ‘ there’s  a deal  of 
human  natur’  in  man,’  and  there  may  be  in  him  : — and  what 
matter  if  there  is  ? ” 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  the  Major  returned,  took  the  candle 
from  Grace,  who  was  sitting  up  for  him,  and  went  .upstairs  with 
a gentle  “ good-night,”  but  without  looking  at  her. 

He  sat  down  at  the  open  window,  and  looked  out  leaning  on 
the  sill. 

“ Well,  I was  too  late  ; I daresay  there  was  some  purpose  in 
it,  When  shall  I learn  to  believe  that  God  takes  better  care  of 
His  own  than  I can  do  ] I was  faithless  and  impatient  to-night. 
I am  afraid  I betrayed  myself  before  that  man.  He  looks  like 
one,  certainly,  who  could  be  trusted  with  a secret : yet  I had 
rather  that  he  had  not  mine.  It  is  my  own  fault,  like  everything 
else ! Foolish  old  fellow  that  you  are,  fretting  and  fussing  to 
the  end  ! Is  not  that  scene  a message  from  above,  saying,  ‘ Be 
still,  and  know  that  I am  God  ’ ? ” 

And  the  Major  looked  out  upon  the  summer  sea,  lit  by  a 
million  globes  of  living  fire,  and  then  upon  the  waves  which 
broke  in  flame  upon  the  beach,  and  then  up  to  the  spangled 
stars  above. 

“ What  do  I know  of  these,  with  all  my  knowing  ? Hot  even 
a twentieth  part  of  those  medusae,  or  one  in  each  thousand  of 
those  sparks  among  the  foam.  Perhaps  I need  not  know.  And 
yet  why  was  the  thirst  awakened  in  me,  save  to  be  satisfied  at 
last  ? Perhaps  to  become  more  intense,  with  every  fresh  delicious 
draught  of  knowledge.  . . . Death,  beautiful,  wise,  kind  death ; 
when  will  you  come  and  tell  me  what  I want  to  know  ] I courted 
you  once  and  many  a time,  brave  old  Death,  only  to  give  rest  to 
the  weary.  That  was  a coward’s  wish,  and  so  you  would  not 
come.  I ran  you  close  in  Affghanistan,  old  Death,  and  at 
Sobraon  too,  I was  not  far  behind  you ; and  I thought  I had 
you  safe  among  that  jungle  grass  at  Aliwal ; but  you  slipped 
through  my  hand — I was  not  worthy  of  you.  And  now  I will 
not  hunt  you  any  more,  old  Death  : do  you  bide  your  time,  and 
I mine  ; though  who  knows  if  I may  not  meet  you  here  ? O11I3 

when  you  come,  give  me  not  rest,  but  work.  Give  work  to  the 
idle,  freedom  to  the  chained,  sight  to  the  blind  t —Tell  me  a little 
* s 


258  THE  CRUISE  OP  THE  WATERWITCH. 

about  finer  things  than  zoophytes — perhaps  about  the  zoophytes 
as  well — and  you  shall  still  be  brave  old  Death,  my  good  camp, 
comrade  now  for  many  a year.” 

Was  Major  Campbell  mad  ? That  depends  upon  the  way  in 
which  the  reader  may  choose  to  define  the  adjective. 

****** 

Meanwhile  Scoutbush  had  walked  into  Penalva  Court — - 
where  an  affecting  scene  of  reconciliation  took  place  ? 

Not  in  the  least.  Scoutbush  kissed  Lucia,  shook  hands  with 
Elsley,  hugged  the  children,  and  then  settled  himself  in  an  arm- 
chair, and  talked  about  the  weather,  exactly  as  if  he  had  been 
running  in  and  out  of  the  house  every  week  for  the  last  three 
years,  and  so  the  matter  was  done  ; and  for  the  first  time  a 
partie  carree  was  assembled  in  the  dining-room. 

The  evening  passed  off  at  first  as  uncomfortably  as  it  could, 
where  three  out  of  the  four  were  well-bred  people.  Elsley  was, 
of  course,  shy  before  Lord  Scoutbush,  and  Scoutbush  was  equally 
shy  before  Elsley,  though  as  civil  as  possible  to  him;  for  the 
little  fellow  stood  in  extreme  awe  of  Elsley ’s  talents,  and  was 
afraid  of  opening  his  lips  before  a poet.  Lucia  was  nervous  for 
both  their  sakes,  as  well  she  might  be;  and  Valencia  had  to 
make  all  the  talking,  and  succeeded  capitally  in  drawing  out 
both  her  brother  and  her  brother-in-law,  till  both  of  them  found 
the  other,  on  the  whole,  more  like  other  people  than  he  had 
expected.  The  next  morning’s  breakfast,  therefore,  was  easy 
and  gracious  enough ; and  when  it  was  over,  and  Lucia  fled  to 
household  matters — 

“ You  smoke,  Vavasour?  ” asked  Scoutbush. 

Vavasour  did  not  smoke. 

“ Eeally  ? I thought  poets  always  smoked.  You  will  not 
forbid  my  having  a cigar  in  your  garden,  nevertheless,  I sup- 
pose % Do  walk  round  with  me,  too,  and  show  me  the  place, 
unless  you  are  going  to  be  busy.” 

Oh  no ; Elsley  was  at  Lord  Scoutbush’s  service,  of  course, 
and  had  really  nothing  to  do.  So  out  they  went. 

“ Charming  old  pigeon-hole  it  is,”  said  its  owner.  “ I have 
not  seen  it  since  I went  into  the  Guards.  Campbell  says  it’s 
a shame  of  me,  and  so  it  is  one,  I suppose ; but  how  beautiful 
you  have  made  the  garden  look  ! ” 

“ Lucia  is  very  fond  of  gardening,”  said  Elsley,  who  was  very 
fond  of  it  also,  and  had  great  taste  therein ; but  he  was  afraid 
to  confess  any  such  tastes  before  a man  who,  he  thought,  would 
not  understand  him. 

“And  that  fine  old  wood — full  of  cocks  it  used  to  be — I 
hope  you  worked  it  well,  last  year.” 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATER  WITCH. 


259 


Elsiey  did  not  shoot ; "but  he  had  heard  there  was  plenty  of 
game  there. 

“ Plenty  of  cocks,”  said  his  guest,  correcting  him  ; “ but  for 
game,  the  less  we  say  about  that  the  better.  I really  wonder 
you  do  not  shoot ; it  fills  up  time  so  in  the  winter.” 

“ There  is  really  no  winter  to  fill  up  here,  thanks  to  this 
delicious  climate ; and  I have  my  books.” 

“ Ah ! I wish  I had.  I wish  heartily,”  said  he,  in  a confi- 
dential tone,  “you,  or  Campbell,  or  some  of  your  clever  men, 
would  sell  me  a little  of  their  book-learning ; as  Valencia  says 
to  me,  4 brains  are  so  common  in  the  world,  I wonder  how  none 
fell  to  your  share.’  ” 

“I  do  not  think  that  they  are  an  article  which  is  for  sale,  if 
Solomon  is  to  be  believed.” 

“ And  if  they  were,  I couldn’t  afford  to  buy,  with  this  Irish 
Encumbered  Estates’  Bill.  But  now,  this  is  one  thing  I wanted 
to  say.  Is  everything  here  just  as  you  would  wish  h Of  course 
no  one  could  wish  a better  tenant ; but  any  repairs,  you  know, 
or  improvements  which  I ought  to  do  of  course  ? Only  tell  me 
what  you  think  should  be  done ; for,  of  course,  you  know  more 
about  these  things  than  I do — can’t  know  less.” 

“ ISTothing,  I assure  you,  Lord  Scoutbush.  I have  always  left 
those  matters  to  Mr.  Tardrew.” 

“ Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  you  shouldn’t  do  that.  He  is  such 
a screw,  as  all  honest  stewards  are.  Screws  me,  I know,  and  I 
dare  say  has  screwed  you  too.” 

“ Never,  I assure  you.  I never  gave  him  the  opportunity, 
and  he  has  been  most  civil.” 

“ Well,  in  future,  just  order  him  to  do  what  you  like,  and 
just  as  if  you  were  landlord,  in  fact and  if  the  old  man 
haggles,  write  to  me,  and  I’ll  blow  him  up.  Delighted  to 
have  a man  of  taste  like  you  here,  who  can  improve  the  place 
for  me.” 

“ I assure  you,  Lord  Scoutbush,  I need  nothing,  nor  does  the 
place.  I am  a man  of  very  few  wants.” 

“ I wish  I were,”  sighed  Scoutbush,  pulling  out  another  of 
Hudson’s  highest-priced  cigars. 

“And  I am  bound  to  say” — (and  here  Elsiey  choked  a little ; 
but  the  Viscount’s  frankness  and  humility  had  softened  him, 
and  he  determined  to  be  very  magnanimous) — “ I am  bound  in 
honour,  after  owing  to  your  kindness  such  an  exquisite  retreat 
— all  that  either  I or  Lucia  could  have  fancied  for  ourselves, 
and  more — not  to  trouble  you  by  asking  for  little  matters  which 
we  really  do  not  need.” 

And  so  Elsiey,  instead  of  simply  asking  to  have  the  house- 
drains  set  right,  which  Lord  Scoutbush  would  have  had  done 

s 2 


260 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


upon  tlie  .spot,  chose  to  he  lofty-minded,  at  the  risk  of  killing 
his  wife  and  children. 

“ My  dear  fellow,  you  really  must  not  ‘ lord  ’ me  any  more  ; 
I hate  it.  I must  he  plain  Scoutbush  here  among  my  own 
people,  just  as  I am  in  the  Guards’  mess-room.  And  as  for 
owing  me  any, — really,  it  is  we  that  are  in  your  debt — to  see 
my  sister  so  happy,  and  such  beautiful  children,  and  so  well  too 
— and  altogether — and  Valencia  so  delighted  with  your  poems 
— and,  and  altogether — ” and  there  Lord  Scoutbush  stopped, 
having  hoisted,  as  he  considered,  the  flag  of  peace  once  and  for 
all,  and  very  glad  that  the  thing  was  over. 

Elsley  was  going  to  say  something  in  return ; but  his  guest 
turned  the  conversation  as  fast  as  he  could.  “ And  now,  I know 
you  want  to  be  busy,  though  you  are  too  civil  to  confess  it;  and 
I must  be  with  that  old  fool  Tardrew  at  ten,  to  settle  accounts  : 
he’ll  scold  me  if  I do  not — the  precise  old  pedant — just  as  if  I 
was  his  own  child.  Good-bye.” 

“ Where  are  you  going,  Frederick?”  called  Lucia,  from  the 
window;  she  had  been  watching  the  interview  anxiously  enough, 
and  could  see  that  it  had  ended  well. 

“ To  old  Stot-and-kye  at  the  farm  : do  you  want  anything?” 

“ No ; only  I thought  you  might  be  going  to  the  yacht;  and 
Valencia  would  have  walked  down  with  you.  She  wants  to  find 
Major  Campbell.” 

“ I want  to  scold  Major  Campbell,”  said  Valencia,  tripping 
out  on  the  lawn  in  her  walking  dress.  “ Why  has  he  not  been 
here  an  hour  ago  ? I will  undertake  to  say  that  he  was  up  at 
four  this  morning.” 

“ He  waits  to  be  invited,  I suppose,”  said  Scoutbush. 

“ I suppose  I must  do  it,”  said  Elsley  to  himself,  sighing. 

“ Just  like  his  primness,”  said  Valencia.  “ I shall  go  down 
and  bring  him  up  myself  this  minute,  and  Mr.  Vavasour  shall 
come  with  me.  Of  course  you  will ! You  do  not  know  what  a 
delightful  person  he  is,  when  once  you  can  break  the  ice.” 

Elsley,  like  most  vain  men,  was  of  a jealous  temper;  and 
Valencia’s  eagerness  to  see  Major  Campbell  jarred  on  him.  He 
wanted  to  keep  the  exquisite  creature  to  himself,  and  Headley 
was  quite  enough  of  an  intruder  already.  Beside,  the  accounts  of 
the  new  comer,  his  learning,  his  military  prowess,  the  reverence 
with  which  all,  even  Scoutbush,  evidently  regarded  him,  made 
him  prepared  to  dislike  the  Major;  and  all  the  more,  now  he 
heard  that  there  was  an  ice-crust  to  crack.  Impulsive  men  like 
Elsley,  especially  when  their  self-respect  and  certainty  of  their 
own  position  is  not  very  strong,  have  instinctively  a defiant  fear 
of  the  strong,  calm,  self-contained  man,  especially  if  he  has  seen 
the  world;  and  Elsley  set  down  Major  Campbell  as  a proud, 


THE  CRUISE  OF  TIIE  WATER  WITCH. 


261 


sarcastic  fellow,  before  whom  he  must  be  at  the  pains  of  being 
continually  on  his  guard.  He  wished  him  a hundred  miles  away. 
However,  there  was  no  refusing  Valencia  anything;  so  he  got  his 
hat,  but  with  so  bad  a grace,  that  Valencia  saw  his  chagrin,  and 
from  mere  naughtiness  of  heart  amused  herself  with  it  by  talking 
all  the  way  of  nothing  but  Major  Campbell. 

“ And  Lucia/’  she  said  at  last,  “ will  be  so  glad  to  see  him 
again.  We  knew  him  so  well,  you  know,  in  Eaton  Square  years 
ago.” 

“ Really,”  said  Elsley,  wincing,  “ I never  met  him  there.”  He 
recollected  that  Lucia  had  expressed  more  pleasure  at  Major 
Campbell’s  coming  than  even  at  that  of  her  brother ; and  a dark, 
undefined  phantom  entered  his  heart,  which,  though  he  would 
have  been  too  proud  to  confess  it  to  himself,  was  none  other 
than  jealousy. 

“ Oh — did  you  not  ? Ho ; it  was  the  year  before  we  first 
knew  you.  And  we  used  to  laugh  at  him  together,  behind  his 
back,  and  christened  him  the  wild  Indian,  because  he  was  so 
gauche  and  shy.  He  was  a major  in  the  Indian  army  then : but 
a few  months  afterwards  he  sold  out,  went  into  the  line — no  one 
could  tell  why,  for  he  threw  away  very  brilliant  prospects,  they 
say,  and  might  have  been  a general  by  now,  instead  of  a mere 
major  still.  Eut  he  is  so  improved  since  then;  he  is  like  an 
elder  brother  to  Scoutbush ; guides  him  in  everything.  I call 
him  the  blind  man,  and  the  major  his  dog  !” 

“ So  much  the  worse,”  thought  Elsley,  who  disliked  the  notion 
of  Campbell’s  having  power  over  a man  to  whom  he  was  indebted 
for  his  house-room : but  by  this  time  they  were  at  Mrs.  Harvey’s 
door. 

Mrs.  Harvey  opened  it,  curtseying  to  the  very  ground:  and 
Valencia  ran  upstairs,  and  knocked  at  the  sitting-room  door 
herself. 

“ Come  in,”  shouted  a pre-occupied  voice  inside. 

“Is  that  a proper  way  in  which  to  address  a lady,  Sir?” 
answered  she,  putting  in  her  beautiful  head. 

Major  Campbell  was  sitting,  Elsley  could  see,  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  cigar  in  mouth,  bent  over  his  microscope : but  instead 
of  the  unexpected  prim  voice,  he  heard  a very  gay  and  arch  one 
answer,  “Is  that  a proper  way  in  which  to  come  peeping  into  an 
old  bachelor’s  sanctuary,  Ma’am  ? Go  away  this  moment,  till  I 
make  myself  fit  to  be  seen.” 

Valencia  shut  the  door  again,  laughing. 

“ You  seem  very  intimate  with  Major  Campbell/’  said  Elsley. 

“ Intimate  ? I look  on  him  as  my  father  almost.  How,  may 
we  come  in?”  said  she,  knocking  again  in  pretty  petulance.  “ I 
want  to  introduce  Mr.  Vavasour.” 


262 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


“ I shall  he  only  too  happy/’  said  the  Major,  opening  his  door 
(this  time  with  his  coat  on);  “ there  are  few  persons  in  the  world 
whom  I have  more  wished  to  know  than  Mr.  Vavasour.”  And  he 
held  out  his  hand,  and  quite  led  Elsley  in.  He  spoke  in  a tone 
of  grave  interest,  looking  intently  at  Elsley  as  he  spoke.  Valencia 
remarked  the  interest — Elsley  only  the  compliment. 

“ It  is  a great  kindness  of  you  to  call  on  me  so  soon,”  said  he. 
66 1 met  Mrs.  Vavasour  several  times  in  years  past ; and  though 
I saw  very  little  of  her,  I saw  enough  to  long  much  for  the 
acquaintance  of  the  man  who  has  keen  worthy  to  become  her 
husband.” 

Elsley  blushed,  for  his  conscience  smote  him  a little  at  that 
word  “ worthy,”  and  muttered  some  common-place  civility  in 
return.  Valencia  saw  it,  and  attributing  it  to  his  usual  awkward- 
ness, drew  off  the  conversation  to  herself. 

“ Eeally,  Major  Campbell ! You  bring  in  Mr.  Vavasour,  and 
let  me  walk  behind  as  I can ; and  then  let  me  sit  three  whole 
minutes  in  your  house  without  deigning  to  speak  to  me  !” 

“ Ah ! my  dear  Queen  Whims  !”  answered  he,  returning  sud- 
denly to  his  gay  tone ; “ and  how  have  you  been  misbehaving 
yourself  since  we  met  last  ? ” 

“ I have  not  been  misbehaving  myself  at  all,  mon  cher  Saint 
Pere,  as  Mr.  Vavasour  will  answer  for  me,  during  the  most 
delightful  fortnight  I ever  spent ! ” 

“ Delightful  indeed  !”  said  Elsley,  as  he  was  bound  to  say : but 
he  said  it  with  an  earnestness  which  made  the  Major  fix  his  eyes 
on  him.  “ Why  should  he  not  find  any  and  every  fortnight  as 
delightful  as  his  last?”  said  he  to  himself;  but  now  Valencia 
began  bantering  him  about  Iris  books  and  his  animals ; wanting 
to  look  through  his  microscope,  pulling  off  her  hat  for  the  purpose, 
laughing  when  her  curls  blinded  her,  letting  them  blind  her  in 
order  to  toss  them  back  in  the  prettiest  way,  jesting  at  him  about 
“ his  old  fogies  ” at  the  Linnaean  Society ; clapping  her  hands  in 
ecstasy  when  he  answered  that  they  were  not  old  fogies  at  all, 
but  the  most  charming  set  of  men  in  England,  and  that  (with  no 
offence  to  the  name  of  Scoutbush)  he  was  prouder  of  being  an 
F.L.S.,  than  if  he  were  a peer  of  the  realm, — and  so  forth;  all 
which  harmless  pleasantry  made  Elsley  cross,  and  more  cross- 
first,  because  he  did  not  mix  in  it ; next,  because  he  could  not 
mix  in  it  if  he  tried.  He  liked  to  be  always  in  the  seventh 
heaven ; and  if  other  people  were  anywhere  else,  he  thought  them 
bores.  - 

At  last, — “ How,  if  you  will  be  good  for  five  minutes,”  said  the 
Major,  “I  will  show  you  something  really  beautiful.” 

“ I can  see  that,”  answered  she,  with  the  most  charming  impu- 
dence, “ in  another  glass  besides  your  magnifying  one.” 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


263 


“ Ee  it  so  : but  look  here,  and  see  what  an  exquisite  world 
there  is,  of  which  you  never  dream ; and  which  behaves  a great 
deal  better  in  its  station  than  the  world  of  which  you  do 
dream ! ” 

When  Campbell  spoke  in  that  way,  Valencia  was  good  at  once.; 
and  as  she  went  obediently  to  the  microscope,  she  whispered, 
“ Don’t  be  angry  with  me,  mon  Saint  Pere.” 

“ Don’t  be  naughty,  then,  ma  chere  enfant ,”  whispered  he  ; for 
he  saw  something  about  Elsley’s  face  which  gave  him  a painful 
suspicion. 

She  looked  long,  and  then  lifted  up  her  head  suddenly — “ Do 
come  and  look,  Mr.  Vavasour,  at  this  exquisite  little  glass  fairy, 
like — I cannot  tell  wdiat  like,  but  a pure  spirit  hovering  in  some 
nun’s  dream  I Come  ! ” 

Elsley  came,  and  looked ; and  when  he  looked  he  started,  for 
it  was  the  very  same  zoophyte  which  Thurnall  had  shown  him 
on  a certain  memorable  day. 

“ Where  did  you  find  the  fairy,  mon  Saint  Pere  ? ” 

“ I had  no  such  good  fortune.  Mr.  Thurnall,  the  doctor,  gave 
it  me.” 

“ Thurnall  h ” said  she,  while  Elsley  kept  still  looking,  to  hide 
cheeks  which  were  growing  very  red.  “ He  is  such  a clever  man, 
they  say.  Where  did  you  meet  him  ? I have  often  thought  of 
asking  Mr.  Vavasour  to  invite  him  up  for  an  evening  with  his 
microscope.  He  seems  so  superior  to  the  people  round  him.  It 
would  be  a charity,  really,  Mr.  Vavasour.” 

“ Vavasour  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  zoophyte,  and  said, — 

“ I shall  be  only  too  delighted,  if  you  wish  it.” 

“You  will  wish  it  yourself  a second  time,”  chimed  in  Camp- 
bell, “ if  you  try  it  once.  Perhaps  you  know  nothing  of  him 
but  professionally.  Unfortunately  for  professional  men,  that  too 
often  happens.” 

“ Know  anything  of  him — 1 1 I assure  you  not,  save  that  he 
attends  Mrs.  Vavasour  and  the  children,”  said  Vavasour,  looking 
up  at  last : but  with  an  expression  of  anger  which  astonished 
both  Valencia  and  Campbell. 

Campbell  thought  that  he  was  too  proud  to  allow  rank  as  a 
gentleman  to  a country  doctor;  and  despised  him  from  that 
moment,  though,  as  it  happened,  unjustly.  But  he  answered 
quietly,— 

“ I assure  you,  that  whatever  some  country  practitioners  may 
be,  the  average  of  them,  as  far  as  I have  seen,  are  cleverer  men, 
and  even  of  higher  tone  than  their  neighbours ; and  Thurnall  is 
beyond  the  average  : he  is  a man  of  the  world, — even  too  much 
of  one, — and  a man  of  science;  and  I.  fairly  confess  that,  what 
with  his  wit,  his  savoir  vivre3  and  his  genial  good  temper,  I have 


264 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


quite  fallen  in  love  with  him  in  a single  evening ; we  began  last 
night  on  the  microscope,  and  ended  on  all  heaven  and  earth.” 

“ How  I should  like  to  make  a third  ! ” 

“ My  dear  Queen  Whims  would  hear  a good  deal  of  sober 
sense,  then ; at  least  on  one  side : but  I shall  not  ask  her : *‘or 
Mr.  Thurnall  and  I have  our  deep  secrets  together.” 

So  spoke  the  Major,  in  the  simple  wish  to  exalt  Tom  in  a 
quarter  where  he  hoped  to  get  him  practice ; and  his  “ secret  ” 
was  a mere  jest,  unnecessary,  perhaps,  as  he  thought  afterwards, 
to  pass  off  Tom’s  want  of  orthodoxy. 

“ I was  a babbler  then,’;  said  he  to  himself  the  next  moment ; 
“ how  much  better  to  have  simply  held  my  tongue  I ” 

“ Ah ; yes ; I know  men  have  their  secrets,  as  well  as  women,” 
said  Valencia,  for  the  mere  love  of  saying  something  : but  as  she 
looked  at  Vavasour,  she  saw  an  expression  in  his  face  which  she 
bad  never  seen  before.  What  was  it? — All  that  one  can  picture 
for  oneself  branded  into  the  countenance  of  a man  unable  to 
repress  the  least  emotion,  who  had  worked  himself  into  the 
belief  that  Thurnall  had  betrayed  his  secret. 

“ My  dear  Mr.  Vavasour,”  cried  Campbell,  of  course  unable 
to  guess  the  truth,  and  supposing  vaguely  that  he  was  “ ill 
“ I am  sure  that — that  the  sun  has  overpowered  you  ” (the  only 
possible  thing  he  could  think  of).  “ Lie  down  on  the  sofa 
a minute”  (Vavasour  was  actually  reeling  with  rage  and  terror), 
■“and  I will  run  up  to  Thurnall’s  for  salvolatile.” 

Elsley,  who  thought  him  the  most  consummate  of  hypocrites, 
cast  on  him  a look  which  he  intended  to  have  been  withering, 
and  rushed  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  two  staring  at  each 
other. 

Valencia  was  half  inclined  to  laugh,  knowing  Elsley’s  petu- 
lance and  vanity  : but  the  impossibility  of  guessing  a cause  kept 
her  quiet. 

Major  Campbell  stood  for  full  five  minutes;  not  as  one 
astounded,  but  as  one  in  deep  and  anxious  thought. 

“ What  can  be  the  matter,  mon  Saint  Pere  ? ” asked  she  at 
last,  to  break  the  silence. 

“ That  there  are  more  whims  in  the  world  than  yours,  dear 
Queen  Whims ; and  I fear  darker  ones.  Let  us  walk  up  to- 
gether after  this  man.  I have  offended  him.” 

“ Nonsense  ! I dare  say  he  wanted  to  get  home  to  write 
poetry,  as  you  did  not  praise  what  he  had  written.  I know  his 
vanity  and  flightiness.” 

“ You  do  ? ” asked  he  quickly,  in  a painful  tone.  “ However, 
I have  offended  him,  I can  see ; and  deeply.  I must  go  up, 
and  make  things  right,  for  the  sake  of — for  everybody’s 
sake.” 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERW1TCH.  265 

“ Then  do  not  ask  me  anything.  Lucia  loves  him  intensely, 
and  let  that  he  enough  for  us.” 

The  Major  saw  the  truth  of  the  last  sentence  no  more  than 
Valencia  herself  did ; for  Valencia  would  have  been  glad  enough 
to  pour  out  to  him,  with  every  exaggeration,  her  sister’s  woes 
and  wrongs,  real  and  fancied,  had  not  the  sense  of  her  own  folly 
with  Vavasour  kept  her  silent  and  conscience-stricken. 

Valencia  remarked  the  Major’s  pained  look  as  they  walked  up 
die  street. 

“ You  dear  conscientious  Saint  Pere,  why  will  you  fret  your- 
self about  this  foolish  matter  ] He  will  have  forgotten  it  all  in 
an  hour ; I know  him  well  enough.” 

Major  Campbell  was  not  the  sort  of  person  to  admire  Elsley 
the  more  for  throwing  away  capriciously  such  deep  passion  as  he 
had  seen  him  show,  any  more  than  for  showing  the  same. 

“ He  must  be  of  a very  volatile  temperament.” 

“ Oh,  all  geniuses  are.” 

“ I have  no  respect  for  genius,  Miss  St.  Just ; I do  not  even 
acknowledge  its  existence  when  there  is  no  strength  and  steadi- 
ness of  character.  If  any  one  pretends  to  be  more  than  a man, 
he  must  begin  by  proving  himself  a man  at  all.  Genius  ] Give 
me  common  sense  and  common  decency  ! Does  he  give  Mrs. 
Vavasour,  pray,  the  benefit  of  any  of  these  pretty  flights  of 
genius  1 ” 

Valencia  was  frightened.  She  had  never  heard  her  Saint 
Pere  speak  so  severely  and  sarcastically ; and  she  feared  that  if 
he  knew  the  truth,  he  would  be  terribly  angry.  She  had  never 
seen  him  angry ; but  she  knew  well  enough  that  that  passion, 
when  it  rose  in  him  in  a righteous  cause,  would  be  very  awful 
to  see  ; and  she  was  one  of  those  women  who  always  grow  angry 
when  they  are  frightened.  So  she  was  angry  at  his  calling  her 
Miss  St.  J ust ; she  was  angry  because  she  chose  to  think  he  was 
talking  at  her ; though  she  reasonably  might  have  guessed  it, 
seeing  that  he  had  scolded  her  a hundred  times  for  want  of 
steadiness  of  character.  She  was  more  angry  than  all,  because 
she  knew  that  her  own  vanity  had  caused — at  least  disagreement 
— between  Lucia  and  Elsley.  All  which  (combined  with  her 
natural  wish  not  to  confess  an  unpleasant  truth  about  her  sister) 
justified  her,  of  course,  in  answering, — 

“ Miss  St.  Just  does  not  intrude  into  the  secrets  of  her  sister’s 
married  life ; and  if  she  did,  she  would  not  repeat  them.” 

Major  Campbell  sighed,  and  walked  on  a few  moments  in 
silence,  then, — 

“ Pardon,  Miss  St.  Just ; I asked  a rude  question,  and  I am 
sorry  for  it.” 

“ Pardon  you,  my  dear  Saint  Pere]  ” cried  she,  almost  catch- 


266 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


ing  at  his  hand.  “ Never ! I must  either  believe  you  infallible, 
or  bate  you  eternally.  It  is  I that  was  naughty ; I always  am  : 
but  you  will  forgive  Queen  Whims  ? ” 

“ Who  could  help  it  h ” said  the  Major,  in  a sad,  sweet  tone. 
“But  here  is  the  postman.  May  I open  my  letters  ?” 

“You  may  do  as  you  like,  now  you  have  forgiven  me.  Why, 
what  is  it,,  mon  Saint  Pere  1 ” 

A sudden  shock  of  horror  had  passed  over  the  Major’s  face,  as 
he  read  his  letter  : but  it  had  soon  subsided  into  stately  calm. 

“ A gallant  officer,  whom  we  and  all  the  world  knew  well,  is 
dead  of  cholera,  at  his  post,  where  a man  should  die.  . . . And, 
my  dear  Miss  St.  Just,  we  are  going  to  the  Crimea.” 

“ We  ?— you  » ” 

“ Yes.  The  expedition  will  really  sail,  I find.” 

“ But  not  you  h ” 

“ I shall  offer  my  services.  My  leave  of  absence  will,  in  any 
case,  end  on  the  first  of  September  ; and  even  if  it  did  not,  my 
health  is  quite  enough  restored  to  enable  me  to  walk  up  to 
a cannon’s  mouth.” 

“ Ah,  mon  Saint  Pere,  what  words  are  these  ] ” 

“ The  words  of  an  old  soldier,  Queen  Whims,  who  has  been 
so  long  at  his  trade  that  he  has  got  to  take  a strange  pleasure 
in  it.” 

“ In  killing  1 ” 

“No;  only  in  the  chance  of . But  I will  not  cast  an 

unnecessary  shadow  over  your  bright  soul.  There  will  be 
shadows  enough  over  it  soon,  without  my  help.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ That  you,  and  thousands  more  as  delicate,  if  not  as  fair  as 
you,  will  see,  ere  long,  what  the  realities  of  human  life  are ; and 
in  a way  of  which  you  have  never  dreamed.” 

And  he  murmured,  half  to  himself,  the  words  of  the  prophet, 
— “ ‘ Thou  saidst,  I shall  sit  as  a lady  for  ever : but  these  two 
things  shall  come  upon  thee  in  one  day,  widowhood  and  the  loss 
of  children.  They  shall  even  come  upon  thee,’ — No ! not  in 
their  fulness ! There  are  noble  elements  beneath  the  crust, 
which  will  come  out  all  the  purer  from  the  fire ; and  we  shall 
have  heroes  and  heroines  rising  up  among  us  as  of  old,  sincere 
and  earnest,  ready  to  face  their  work,  and  to  do  it,  and  to  call 
all  tilings  by  their  right  names  once  more ; and  Queen  Whims 
herself  will  become  what  Queen  Whims  might  be  ! ” 

Valencia  was  awed,  as  well  she  might  have  been ; for  there 
was  a very  deep  sadness  about  Campbell’s  voice. 

“You  think  there  will  be  def disasters  ?”  said  she,  at 

last. 

“ How  can  I tell  1 That  we  are  wliat  we  always  were,  1 


TEE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERW1TCH.  2(57 

doubt  not.  Scoutbusb  will  fight  as  merrily  as  I.  But  we  owe 
the  penalty  of  many  sins,  and  we  shall  pay  it.” 

It  would  be  as  unfair,  perhaps,  as  easy,  to  make  Major 
Campbell  a prophet  after  the  fact,  by  attributing  to  him  any 
distinct  expectation  of  those  mistakes  which  have  been  but  too 
notorious  since.  Much  of  the  sadness  in  his  tone  may  have 
been  due  to  his  habitual  melancholy ; his  strong  belief  that  the 
world  was,  deeply  diseased,  and  that  some  terrible  purgation 
would  surely  come,  when  it  was  needed.  But  it  is  difficult, 
again,  to  conceive  that  those  errors  were  altogether  unforeseen 
by  many  an  officer  of  Campbells  experience  and  thoughtfulness. 

“We  will  talk  no  more  of  it  just  now.”  And  they  walked 
up  to  Penalva  Court,  seriously  enough. 

“Well,  Scoutbush,  any  letters  from  town  ?”  said  the  Major. 

“Yes.” 

“ You  have  heard  what  has  happened  at  D Barracks  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“You  had  better  take  care  then,  that  the  like  of  it  does  not 
happen  here.” 

“ Here  ? ” 

“Yes.  Ill  tell  you  all  presently.  Have  you  heard  from 
head-quarters  ? ” 

“ Yes  ; all  right,”  said  Scoutbush,  who  did  not  like  to  let  out 
the  truth  before  Valencia. 

Campbell  saw  it,  and  signed  to  him  to  speak  out. 

“ All  right  V'  asked  Valencia.  “ Then  you  are  not  going  ? ” 

“ Ay,  but  I am  ! Orders  to  join  my  regiment  by  the  first  of 
October,  and  to  be  shot  as  soon  afterwards  as  is  fitting  for  the 
honour  of  my  country.  So,  Miss  Val,  you  must  be  quick  in 
making  good  friends  with  the  heir-at-law ; or  else  you  won’t  get 
your  bills  paid  any  more.” 

“ Oh,  dear,  dear  ! ” And  Valencia  began  to  cry  bitterly.  It 
was  her  first  real  sorrow. 

Strangely  enough,  Major  Campbell,  instead  of  trying  to  com- 
fort her,  took  Scoutbush  out  with  him,  and  left  her  alone  with 
her  tears.  He  could  not  rest  till  he  had  opened  the  whole 
cholera  question. 

Scoutbush  was  honestly  shocked.  Who  would  have  dreamed 
it  ? Ho  one  had  ever  told  him  that  the  cholera  had  really  been 
there  before.  What  could  he  do  h Send  for  Thurnall  \ 

Tom  was  sent  for ; and  Scoutbush  found,  to  his  horror,  that 
what  little  he  could  have  ever  done  ought  to  have  been  done 
three  months  ago,  with  Lord  Minchampstead’s  improvements  at 
Pentremochyn. 

The  little  man  walked  up  and  down,  and  wrung  his  hands. 
He  cursed  Tardrew  for  not  telling  him  the  truth ; he  cursed 


268 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATER  WITCH. 


himself  for  letting  the  cottages  go  out  of  his  power ; he  cursed 
A,  B,  and  C,  for  taking  the  said  cottages  off  his  hands  ; he 
cursed  up,  he  cursed  down,  he  cursed  all  around,  things  which 
ought  to  have  been  cursed,  and  things  which  really  ought  not — 
for  half  of  the  worst  sanatory  sinners,  in  this  blessed  age  of 
ignorance,  yclept  of  progress  and  science,  (how  our  grandchildren 
will  laugh  at  the  epithets  !)  are  utterly  unconscious  and  guiltless 
ones. 

But  cursing  leaves  him,  as  it  leaves  other  men,  very  much 
where  he  had  started. 

To  do  him  justice,  he  was  in  one  thing  a true  nobleman,  for 
he  was  above  all  pride  ; as  are  most  men  of  rank,  who  know 
what  their  own  rank  means.  It  is  only  the  upstart,  unaccus- 
tomed to  his  new  eminence,  who  stands  on  his  dignity,  and 
“ asserts  his  power.” 

So  Scoutbush  begged  humbly  of  Thurnall  only  to  tell  him 
what  he  could  do. 

“ You  might  use  your  moral  influence,  my  lord.” 

“ Moral  influence  V1  in  a tone  which  implied  naively  enough, 
“ I’d  better  get  a little  morals  myself  before  I talk  of  using  the 
same.” 

“ Your  position  in  the  parish — ” 

“ My  good  Sir  ! ” quoth  Scoutbush  in  his  shrewd  way ; “ do 
you  not  know  yourself  what  these  fine  fellows  who  were  ready 
yesterday  to  kiss  the  dust  off  my  feet  would  say,  if  I asked  leave 
to  touch  a single  hair  of  their  rights  ? — ‘ Tell  you  what,  my 
lord ; we  pays  you  your  rent,  and  you  takes  it.  You  mind  your 
business,  and  we’ll  mind  our’n.’  You  forget  that  times  are 
changed  since  my  seventeenth  progenitor  was  lord  of  life  and 
limb  over  man  and  maid  in  Aberalva.” 

“ And  since  your  seventeenth  progenitor  took  the  trouble  to 
live  at  Penalva  Court,”  said  Campbell,  “ instead  of  throwing 
away  what  little  moral  influence  he  had  by  going  into  the 
Guards,  and  spending  his  time  between  Botten  Bow  and  Cowes.” 

“ Hardly  fair,  Major  Campbell!”  quoth  Tom;  “ you  forget 
that  in  the  old  times,  if  the  Lord  of  Aberalva  was  responsible 
for  his  people,  he  had  also  by  law  the  power  of  making  them 
obey  him.” 

“ The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  then,”  said  Scoutbush,  a 
little  tartly,  “ that  I can  do  nothing.” 

“You  can  put  to-rights  the  cottages  which  are  still  in  your 
hands,  my  lord.  Bor  the  rest,  my  only 'remaining  hope  lies  in 
the  last  person  whom  one  would  usually  depute  on  such  an 
errand.” 

“ Who  is  that  h ” 

u The  schoolmistress.” 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH.  260 

“ The  who  ? ” asked  Scoutbush. 

“ The  schoolmistress ; at  whose  house  Major  Campbell  lodges.” 
And  Tom  told  them,  succinctly,  enough  to  justify  his  strange 
assertion. 

“ If  you  doubt  me,  my  lord,  I advise  you  to  ask  Mr.  Headley. 
He  is  no  friend  of  hers ; being  a high  churchman,  while  she  is 
a little  inclined  to  be  schismatic ; but  an  enemy’s  opinion  will 
be  all  the  more  honest.” 

“ She  must  be  a wonderful  woman,”  said  Scoutbush ; “ I 
should  like  to  see  her.” 

“ And  I too,”  said  Campbell.  “ I passed  a lovely  girl  on  the 
stairs  last  night,  and  thought  no  more  of  it.  Lovely  girls  are 
common  enough  in  West  Country  ports.” 

“ We’ll  go  and  see  her,”  quoth  his  lordship. 

Meanwhile,  Aberalva  pier  was  astonished  by  a strange  pheno- 
menon. A boat  from  the  yacht  landed  at  the  pier-head,  not 
only  Claude  Mellot,  whose  beard  was  an  object  of  wonder  to 
the  fishermen,  but  a tall  three-legged  box  and  a little  black 
tent;  which,  being  set  upon  the  pier,  became  the  scene  of 
various  mysterious  operations,  carried  on  by  Claude  and  a sailor 
lad. 

“ I say  !”  quoth  one  of  the  fishing  elders,  after  long  suspicious 
silence;  “ I say,  lads,  this  won’t  do.  We  can’t  have  no  out- 
landish foreigners  taking  observations  here  ! ” 

And  then  dropped  out  one  wild  suspicion  after  another. 

“ Maybe  he’s  surveying  for  a railroad?” 

“ Maybe  he’s  from  the  Trinity  House,  going  to  make  a new 
harbour;  or  maybe  a light-house.  And  then  w^e’d  better  not 
meddle  wi’  him.” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  what  he  be.  He’s  that  here  government  chap 
as  the  Doctor  said  he’d  bring  down  to  set  our  drains  right.” 

“ If  he  goes  meddling  with  our  drains,  and  knocking  of  our 
back -yards  about,  he’ll  find  himself  over  quay  before  he’s  done.” 
“ Steady  ! steady  ! He  come  with  my  loord,  mind.” 

“ He  might  a’  taken  in  his  loordship,  and  be  a Eoossian  spy 
to  the  bottom  of  him  after  all.  They  mak’  munselves  up  into 
all  manner  of  disguisements,  specially  beards.  I’ve  seed  the 
Eoossians  with  their  beards  many  a time.” 

“ Maybe  ’tis  witchcraft.  Look  to  mun,  putting  mun’s  head 
under  that  black  bag  now  ! He’m  after  no  good,  I’ll  warrant. 
If  they  be’nt  works  of  darkness,  what  be  ?” 

“ Leastwise  he’m  no  right  to  go  spying  here  on  our  quay,  and 
never  ax  with  your  leave,  or  by  your  leave.  I’ll  just  goo  mak’ 
mun  out.” 

And  Claude  who  had  just  retreated  into  his  tent,  had  the 
pleasure  of  finding  the  curtain  suddenly  withdrawn,  and  as  a 


2 70 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATER WlTCit. 


flood  of  light  rushed  in,  spoiling  his  daguerreotype  plate,  hearing 
a voice  as  of  a sleepy  hear — 

“ Ax  your  pardon,  Sir;  hut  what  he  you  arter  here  ?” 
“Murder!  shut  the  screen !”  But  it  was  too  late;  and 
Claude  came  out,  while  the  eldest-horn  of  Analc  stood  sternly 
inquiring, — 

“ I say,  what  he  you  arter  here,  mak’  so  boold1?” 
u Taking  sun-pictures,  my  good  sir;  and  you  have  spoilt  une 
for  me.” 

“ Sun-pic  furs,  saith  a1?”  in  a very  incredulous  tone. 

“ Daguerreotypes  of  the  place  for  Lord  Scoutbush.” 

“ Oh  ! — if  it’s  his  lordship’s  wish,  of  course  ! Only  things  i3 
very  well  as  they  are,  and  needs  no  mending,  thank  God.  Only, 
ax  pardon,  Sir.  You  see,  we  don’t  generally  allow  no  interfering 
on  our  pier  without  lave,  Sir ; the  pier  being  ourn,  we  pays  for 
the  repairing.  So,  if  his  lordship  intends  making  of  alterations, 
he’d  better  to  have  spoken  to  us  first.” 

“ Alterations  V ’ said  Claude,  laughing;  “ the  place  is  far  too 
pretty  to  need  any  improvement.” 

“ Glad  you  think  so,  Sir  ! But  whatever  be  you  arter  here  V9 
“ Taking  views  ! I’m  a painter,  an  artist ! I’ll  take  your 
portrait,  if  you  like  !”  said  Claude,  laughing  more  and  more. 

“ Bless  my  heart,  what  vules  we  be ! ’Tis  a paainter  gentle- 
man, lads  !”  roared  he. 

“ What  on  earth  did  you  take  me  for  1 A Bussian  spy  Vf 
The  elder  shook  his  head ; grinned  solemnly ; and  peace  was 
concluded.  “We’m  old-fashioned  folks  here,  you  see,  Sir;  and 
don’t  like  no  new-fangled  meddlecomes.  You’ll  excuse  us; 
you’m  very  welcome  to  do  what  you  like,  and  glad  to  see  you 
here.”  And  the  old  fellow  made  a stately  bow,  and  moved 
away. 

“ Ho,  no  ! you  must  stay  and  have  your  portrait  taken;  you’ll 
make  a fine  picture.” 

“ Hum  ; might  ha’,  they  used  to  say,  thirty  years  agone ; I’m 
over  old  now.  Still,  my  old  woman  might  like  it.  Make  so 
bold,  Sir,  but  what’s  your  charge  h ” 

“ I charge  nothing.  Live  minutes’  talk  with  an  honest  man 
will  pay  me.” 

“ Hum  : if  you’d  a let  me  pay  you,  Sir,  well  and  good  ; but  I 
maunt  take  up  your  time  for  nought;  that’s  not  fair.” 

However,  Claude  prevailed,  and  in  ten  minutes  he  had  all 
the  sailors  on  the  quay  round  him  ; and  one  after  another  came 
forward  blushing  and  grinning  to  be  “ taken  off.”  Soon  the 
children  gathered  round,  and  when  Valencia  and  Major  Camp- 
bell came  on  the  pier,  they  found  Claude  in  the  midst  of 
a ring  of  little  dark-haired  angels ; while  a dozen  honest  fellows 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


271 


grinned  when  their  own  visages  appeared,  and  chaffed  each 
other  about  the  sweethearts  who  were  to  keep  them  while  they 
were  out  at  sea.  And  in  the  midst  little  Claude  laughed  and 
joked,  and  told  good  stories,  and  gave  himself  up,  the  simple, 
the  sunny-hearted  fellow,  to  the  pleasure  of  pleasing,  till  he 
earned  from  one  and  all  the  character  of  “the  pleasantest- 
spokenest  gentleman  that  was  ever  into  the  town.” 

“ Here’s  her  ladyship  ! make  room  for  her  ladyship  ! ” But 
Claude  held  up  a warning  hand.  He  had  just  arranged  a master- 
piece,— half-a-dozen  of  the  prettiest  children,  sitting  beneath  a 
broken  boat,  on  spare,  sails,  blocks,  lobster-pots,  and  what  not, 
arranged  in  picturesque  confusion ; while  the  black-bearded  sea- 
kings  round  were  promising  them  rock  and  bullseyes,  if  they 
would  only  sit  still  like  “gude  maids.” 

But  at  Valencia’s  coming  the  children  all  looked  round,  and 
jumped  up  and  curtsied,  and  then  were  afraid  to  sit  down  again. 

“ You  have  spoilt  my  group,  Miss  St.  Just,  and  you  must 
mend  it ! ” 

Valencia  caught  the  humour,  regrouped  them  all  forthwith; 
and  then  placed  herself  in  front  of  them  by  Claude’s  side. 

“How,  be  good  children  ! Look  straight  at  me,  and  listen!” 
And  lifting  up  her  finger,  she  began  to  sing  the  first  song  of 
which  she  could  think,  “The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Lathers.” 
She  had  no  need  to  bid  the  children  look  at  her  and  listen ; 
for  not  only  they,  but  every  face  upon  the  pier  was  fixed  upon 
her ; breathless,  spell-bound,  at  once  by  her  magnificent  beauty 
and  her  magnificent  voice,  as  up  rose,  leaping  into  the  clear 
summer  air,  and  rolling  away  over  the  still  blue  sea,  that 
glorious  melody  which  has  now  become  the  national  anthem 
to  the  nobler  half  of  the  Hew  World.  Honour  to  woman,  and 
honour  to  old  England,  that  from  Eelicia  Hemans  came  the 
song  which  will  last,  perhaps,  when  modern  Europe  shall  have 
shared  the  fate  of  ancient  Borne  and  Greece  ! 

Valencia’s  singing  was  the  reflex  of  her  own  character ; and 
therefore,  perhaps,  all  the  more  fitted  to  the  song,  the  place, 
and  the  audience.  It  was  no  modest  cooing  voice,  tender, 
suggestive,  trembling  with  suppressed  emotion,  such  as,  even 
though  narrow  in  compass,  and  dull  in  quality,  will  touch  the 
deepest  fibres  of  the  heart,  and,  as  delicate  scents  will  some- 
times do,  wake  up  long-forgotten  dreams,  which  seem  memories 
of  some  antenatal  life. 

It  was  clear,  rich,  massive,  of  extraordinary  compass,  and  yet 
full  of  all  the  graceful  ease,  the  audacious  frolic,  of  perfect 
physical  health,  and  strength,  and  beauty;  had  there  been  a 
trace  of  effort  in  it,  it  might  have  been  accused  of  “ bravura  : ” 
but  there  was  no  need  of  effort  where  nature  had  bestowed 


272 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCK. 


already  an  all  but  perfect  organ,  and  all  that  was  left  for  science 
was  to  teach  not  power,  but  control.  Above  all,  it  was  a voice 
which  you  trusted ; after  the  first  three  notes  you  felt  that  that 
perfect  ear,  that  perfect  throat,  could  never,  even  by  the  thou- 
sandth part  of  a note,  fall  short  of  melody ; and  you  gave  your 
soul  up  to  it,  and  cast  yourself  upon  it,  to  bear  you  up  and 
away,  like  a fairy  steed,  whither  it  would,  down  into  the  abysses 
of  sadness,  and  up  to  the  highest  heaven  of  joy ; as  did  those 
wild  and  rough,  and  yet  tender-hearted  and  imaginative  men 
that  day,  while  every  face  spoke  new  delight,  and  hung  upon 
those  glorious  notes, — 

“ As  one  who  drinks  from  a charmed  cup 

Of  sparkling,  and  foaming,  and  murmuring  wine  ” — 

and  not  one  of  them,  had  he  had  the  gift  of  words,  but  might 
have  said  with  the  poet : — 

“■I  have  no  life,  Constantia,  now  hut  thee, 

While,  like  the  world-surrounding  air,  thy  song 
Flows  on,  and  nils  all  things  with  melody. 

Now  is  thy  voice  tempest  swift  and  strong, 

On  which,  like  one  in  a trance  upborne, 

Secure  o’er  rocks  and  waves  I sweep, 

Rejoicing  like  a cloud  of  morn. 

Now  ’tis  the  breath  of  summer  night, 

Which,  when  the  starry  waters  sleep 

Round  western  isles,  with  incense-blossoms  bright, 

Lingering,  suspends  my  soul  in  its  voluptuous  flight.” 

At  last  it  ceased  : and  all  men  drew  their  breaths  once  more ; 
while  a low  murmur  of  admiration  ran  through  the  crowd,  too 
well-bred  to  applaud  openly,  as  they  longed  to  do. 

44  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  that,  Gentleman  Jan  V9 
44  Or  see  1 I used  to  say  no  one  could  hold  a candle  to  our 
Grace  but  she — she  looked  like  a born  queen  all  the  time  ! ” 

“ Well,  she  belongs  to  us,  too,  so  we’ve  a right  to  be  proud 
of  her.  Why,  here’s  our  Grace  all  the  while  ! ” 

True  enough ; Grace  had  been  standing  among  the  crowd  all 
the  while,  rapt,  like  them,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Valencia,  and  full, 
too,  of  tears.  They  had  been  called  up  first  by  the  melody 
itself,  and  then,  by  a chain  of  thought  peculiar  to  Grace,  by  the 
faces  round  her. 

4 4 Ah  ! if  Grace  had  been  here  ! ” cried  one,  44  we’d  have  had 
her  dra’ed  off  in  the  midst  of  the  children.” 

44  Ah  ! that  would  ha’  been  as  nat’ral  as  life  ! ” 

44  Silence,  you  ! ” says  Gentleman  Jan,  who  generally  feels 
a mission  to  teach  the  rest  of  the  quay  good  manners,  44 ’Tis 
the  gentleman’s  pleasure  to  settle  who  he’ll  dra’  off,  and  not 
wer’n.” 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


273 


To  which  abnormal  possessive  pronoun,  Claude  rejoined, — 

“ Not  a hit ! whatever  you  like.  I could  not  have  a better 
figure  for  the  centre.  Ill  begin  again.” 

“ Oh,  do  come  and  sit  among  the  children,  Grace ! ” says 
Valencia. 

“ No,  thank  your  ladyship.” 

Valencia  began  urging  her ; and  many  a voice  round,  old  as 
well  as  young,  backed  the  entreaty. 

“ Excuse  me,  my  lady,”  and  she  slipped  into  the  crowd ; but 
as  she  went  she  spoke  low,  but  clear  enough  to  be  heard  by  all : 
“No  : it  will  be  time  enough  to  flatter  me,  and  ask  for  my 
picture,  when  you  do  what  I tell  you — what  God  tells  you  ! ” 

“ What’s  that,  then,  Grace  dear  ? ” 

“ You  know  ! I’ve  asked  you  to  save  your  own  lives  from 
cholera,  and  you  have  not  the  common  sense  to  do  it.  Let  me 
go  home  and  pray  for  you  ! ” 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  among  the  men,  till  some 
fellow  said, — 

“ She’m  gone  mad  after  that  doctor,  I think,  with  his  muck- 
hunting notions.” 

And  Grace  went  home,  to  await  the  hour  of  afternoon  school. 

“ What  a face  ! ” said  Mellot. 

“Is  it  not  1 Come  and  see  her  in  her  school,  when  the 
children  go  in  at  two  o’clock.  Ah ! there  are  Scoutbush  and 
St.  Pere.” 

“We  are  going  to  the  school,  my  lord.  Don’t  you  think 
that,  as  patron  of  things  in  general  here,  it  would  look  well 
if  you  walked  in,  and  signified  your  full  approbation  of  what 
you  know  nothing  about  ? ” 

“ So  much  so,  that  I was  just  on  my  way  there  with  Camp- 
bell. But  I must  just  speak  to  that  lime-burning  fellow.  He 
wants  a new  lease  of  the  kiln,  and  I suppose  he  must  have  it. 
At  least,  here  he  comes,  running  at  me  open-mouthed,  and  as 
dry  as  his  own  waistband.  It  makes  one  thirsty  to  look  at 
him.  I’ll  catch  you  up  in  five  minutes  ! ” 

So  the  three  went  off  to  the  school. 

* * * * # 

Grace  was  telling,  in  her  own  sweet  way,  that  charming  story 
of  the  Three  Trouts,  which,  by  the  bye,  has  been  lately  pirated 
(as  many  things  are)  by  a religious  author,  whose  book  differs 
sufficiently  from  the  liberal  and  wholesome  morality  of  the  true 
author  of  the  tale. 

“ What  a beautiful  story,  Grace  ! ” said  Valencia.  “ You  will 
surpass  Hans  Anderssen  some  day.” 

Grace  blushed,  and  was  silent  a moment. 

“ It  is  not  mv  own,  my  lady.” 

* * T 


274 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


“Not  your  own?  I should  have  thought  that  no  one  hut 
you  and  Anderssen  could  have  made  such  an  ending  to  it.” 

Grace  gave  her  one  of  those  beseeching,  half-reproachful 
looks,  with  which  she  always  answered  praise;  and  then, — 
“Would  you  like  to  hear  the  children  repeat  a hymn,  mv 
lady  ? ” 

“No.  I want  to  know  where  that  story  came  from.” 

Grace  blushed,  and  stammered. 

“I  know  where,”  said  Campbell.  “You  need  not  be  ashamed 
of  having  read  the  book,  Miss  Harvey.  I doubt  not  that  you 
took  all  the  good  from  it,  and  none  of  the  harm,  if  harm 
there  be.” 

Grace  looked  at  him ; at  once  surprised  and  relieved. 

“It  was  a foolish  romance-book,  Sir,  as  you  seem  to  know. 
It  was  the  only  one  which  I ever  read,  except  Hans  Anderssen’s, 
— which  are  not  romances,  after  all.  But  the  beginning  was  so 
full  of  God’s  truth,  Sir, — romance  though  it  was, — and  gave  me 
such  precious  new  light  about  educating  children,  that  I was 
led  on  unawares.  I hope  I was  not  wrong.” 

“ This  schoolroom  proves  that  you  were  not,”  said  Campbell. 
“ ‘ To  the  pure,  all  things  are  pure.’  ” 

“ What  is  this  mysterious  book  ? I must  know ! ” said 
Valencia. 

“A  very  noble  romance,  which  I made  Mellot  read  once, 
containing  the  ideal  education  of  an  English  nobleman,  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  century.” 

“ The  Eool  of  Quality?”  said  Mellot.  “Of  course  ! I thought 
I had  heard  the  story  before.  What  a well-written  book  it  is, 
too,  in  spite  of  all  extravagance  and  prolixity.  And  how  wonder- 
fully ahead  of  his  generation  the  man  who  wrote  it,  in  politics 
as  well  as  in  religion  ! ” 

“I  must  read  it,”  said  Valencia.  “You  must  lend  it  me, 
Saint  Pere.” 

“ Not  yet,  I think.” 

“ Why  ? ” whispered  she,  pouting.  “ I suppose  I am  not  as 
pure  as  Grace  Harvey  ? ” 

“ She  has  the  children  to  educate,  who  are  in  daily  contact 
with  coarse  sins,  of  which  you  know  nothing — of  which  she 
cannot  help  knowing.  It  was  written  in  an  age  when  the  morals 
of  our  class  (more  shame  to  us)  were  on  the  same  level  with  the 
morals  of  her  class  now.  Let  it  alone.  I often  have  fancied  I 
should  edit  a corrected  edition  of  it.  When  I do,  you  shall  read 
that.” 

“ Now,  Miss  Harvey,”  said  Mellot,  who  had  never  taken  his 
eyes  off  her  face,  “ I want  to  turn  schoolmaster,  and  give  your 
children  a drawing  lesson.  Get  your  slates,  all  of  you  ” 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


275 


And  taking  possession  of  the  Mack  board  and  a piece  of  chalk, 
Claude  began  sketching  them  imps  and  angels,  dogs  and  horses, 
till  the  school  rang  with  shrieks  of  delight. 

“ Now,”  said  he,  wiping  the  board,  “ I’ll  draw  something,  and 
you  shall  copy  it.” 

And,  without  taking  off  his  hand,  he  drew  a single  line ; and 
' a profile  head  sprang  up,  as  if  by  magic,  under  his  firm,  unerring 
' touch. 

“ Somebody  ! ” “A  lady  ! ” “ No,  ’taint ; ’tis  schoolmis- 

tress ! ” 

“ You  can’t  copy  that ; I’ll  draw  you  another  face.”  And  he 
sketched  a full  face  on  the  board. 

“ That’s  my  lady.”  “ No,  it’s  schoolmistress  again  ! ” “ No, 

it’s  not ! ” 

“Not  quite  sure,  my  dears'?”  said  Claude,  half  to  himself. 
“ Then  here  ! ” and  wiping  the  board  once  more,  he  drew  a three- 
quarters  face,  which  elicited  a shout  of  approbation. 

“ That’s  schoolmistress,  her  very  self ! ” 

“ Then  you  cannot  do  anything  better  than  try  and  draw  it. 
I’ll  show  you  how.”  And  going  over  the  lines  again,  one  by 
one,  the  crafty  Claude  pretended  to  be  giving  a drawing  lesson, 
while  he  was  really  studying  every  feature  of  his  model. 

“ If  you  please,  my  lady,”  whispered  Grace  to  Valencia;  “I 
wish  the  gentleman  would  not.” 

“ Why  not  ? ” 

“ Oh,  Madam,  I do  not  judge  any  one  else : but  why  should 
this  poor  perishing  flesh  be  put  into  a picture?  We  wear  it 
but  for  a little  while,  and  are  blessed  when  we  are  rid  of  its 
burden.  Why  wish  to  keep  a copy  of  what  we  long  to  be 
delivered  from  ? ” 

“ It  will  please  the  children,  Grace,”  said  Valencia,  puzzled. 
“ See  how  they  are  all  trying  to  copy  it,  from  love  of  you.” 

“ Who  am  I ? I want  them  to  do  things  from  love  of  God. 
No,  Madam,  I was  pained  (and  no  offence  to  you)  when  I was 
asked  to  have  my  likeness  taken  on  the  quay.  There’s  no  sin  in 
it,  of  course  : but  let  those  who  are  going  away  to  sea,  and  have 
friends  at  home,  have  their  pictures  taken : not  one  who  wishes 
to  leave  behind  her  no  likeness  of  her  own,  only  Christ’s  likeness 
in  these  children ; and  to  paint  Him  to  other  people,  not  to  be 
painted  herself.  Do  ask  him  to  rub  it  out,  my  lady  ! ” 

“ Why,  Grace,  we  were  all  just  wishing  to  have  a likeness  of 
you.  Every  one  has  their  picture  taken  for  a remembrance.” 

“ The  saints  and  martyrs  never  had  theirs,  as  far  as  I ever 
heard,  and  yet  they  are  not  forgotten  yet.  I know  it  is  the  way 
of  great  people  like  you.  I saw  your  picture  once,  in  a book 
Miss  Heale  had  ; and  did  not  wonder,  when  I saw  it,  that  people 

t 2 


276 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "WATER WITCH. 


wished  to  remember  such  a face  as  yours  : and  since  I have  seen 
you,  I wonder  still  less.” 

44  My  picture  ? where  ? ” 

44  In  a hook — 4 The  Book  of  Beauty/  I believe  they  called  it.” 

44  My  dear  Grace,”  said  Valencia,  laughing  and  blushing,  44  if 
you  ever  looked  in  your  glass,  you  must  know  that  you  are  quite 
as  worthy  of  a place  in  4 The  Book  of  Beauty ’ as  I am.” 

Grace  shook  her  head  with  a serious  smile.  44  Every  one  in 
their  place,  Madam.  I cannot  help  knovTing  that  God  has  given 
me  a gift : but  why,  I cannot  tell.  Certainly  not  for  the  same 
purpose  as  He  gave  it  to  you  for, — a simple  country  girl  like  me. 
If  He  have  any  use  for  it,  He  will  use  it,  as  He  does  all  His 
creatures,  without  my  help.  At  all  events  it  will  not  last  long ; 
a few  years  more,  perhaps  a fevr  months,  and  it  will  be  food  for 
worms ; and  then  people  will  care  as  little  about  my  looks  as  I 
care  now.  I wish,  my  lady,  you  would  stop  the  gentleman ! ” 

44  Mr.  Mellot,  draw  the  children  something  simpler,  please ; — 
a dog  or  a cat.”  And  she  gave  Claude  a look  which  he  obeyed. 

Valencia  felt  in  a more  solemn  mood  than  usual  as  she  walked 
home  that  day. 

44  Well,”  said  Claude,  44 1 have  here  every  line  and  shade,  and 
she  cannot  escape  me.  Ill  go  on  board  and  paint  her  right  off 
from  memory,  while  it  is  fresh.  Why,  here  come  Scoutbush 
and  the  Major.” 

44  Miss  Harvey,”  said  Scoutbush,  trying,  as  he  said  to  Camp- 
bell, 44  to  look  as  grand  as  a sheep-dog  among  a pack  of  fox- 
hounds, and  very  thankful  all  the  while  he  had  no  tail  to  be 
bitten  off” — 44  Miss  Harvey,  I — we — have  heard  a great  deal  in 
praise  of  your  school ; and  so  I thought  I should  like  to  come 
and  see  it.” 

44  Would  your  lordship  like  to  examine  the  children  ? ” says 
Grace,  curtseying  to  the  ground. 

44  No — thanks — that  is — I have  no  doubt  you  teach  them  all 
that’s  right,  and  we  are  exceedingly  gratified  with  the  way  in 
which  you  conduct  the  school. — I say,  Val,”  cried  Scoutbush, 
who  could  support  the  part  of  patron  no  longer,  44  what  pretty 
little  ducks  they  are,  I wish  I had  a dozen  of  them  ! Come  you 
here  ! ” and  down  he  sat  on  a bench,  and  gathered  a group 
round  him. 

44  Now,  are  you  all  good  children  ? I’m  sure  you  look  so  ! ” 
said  he,  looking  round  into  the  bright  pure  faces,  fresh  from 
heaven,  and  feeling  himself  the  nearer  heaven  as  he  did  so. 
44  Ah ! I see  Mr.  Mellot’s  been  drawing  you  pictures.  He’s  a 
clever  man,  a wonderful  man,  isn’t  he  ? I can’t  draw  you 
pictures,  nor  tell  you  stories,  like  your  schoolmistress.  What 
shall  I do  ! ” 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


277 


“ Sing  to  them  Fred  ! ” said  Valencia. 

And  he  began  warbling  a funny  song,  with  a child  on  each 
knee,  and  his  arms  round  three  or  four  more,  while  the  little 
faces  looked  up  into  his,  half  awe-struck  at  the  presence  of  a 
live  lord,  half  longing  to  laugh,  but  not  sure  whether  it  would 
be  right. 

Valencia  and  Campbell  stood  close  together,  exchanging 
looks. 

“ Dear  fellow  ! ” whispered  she,  “ so  simple  and  good  when  he 
is  himself ! And  he  must  go  to  that  dreadful  war  ! ” 

“ Never  mind.  Perhaps  by  this  very  act  he  is  earning  per- 
mission to  come  back  again,  a wiser  and  a more  useful  man.” 

“ How  then  ? ” 

“Is  he  not  making  friends  with  angels  who  always  behold 
our  Father’s  face  ? At  least  he  is  showing  capabilities  of  good, 
which  God  gave ; and  which  therefore  God  will  never  waste.” 

“ Now,  shall  I sing  you  another  song  ? ” 

“ Oh  yes,  please  ! ” rose  from  a dozen  little  mouths. 

“You  must  not  be  troublesome  to  his  lordship,”  says  Grace. 

“ Oh  no,  I like  it.  I’ll  sing  them  one  more  song,  and  then — 
I want  to  speak  to  yon,  Miss  Harvey.” 

Grace  curtsied,  blushed,  and  shook  all  over.  What  could 
Lord  Scoutbush  want  to  say  to  her  ] 

That  indeed  was  not  very  easy  to  discover  at  first ; for  Scout- 
bush  felt  so  strongly  the  oddity  of  taking  a pretty  young  woman 
into  his  counsel  on  a question  of  sanitary  reform,  that  he  felt 
mightily  inclined  to  laugh,  and  began  beating  about  the  bush 
in  a sufficiently  confused  fashion. 

“Well,  Miss  Harvey,  I am  exceedingly  pleased  with — with 
what  I have  seen  of  the  school — that  is,  what  my  sister  tells, 
and  the  clergyman — ” 

“ The  clergyman  h ” thought  Grace,  surprised,  as  she  well 
might  be,  at  what  was  entirely  an  impromptu  invention  of  his 
lordship’s. 

“ And — and — there  is  ten  pounds  toward  the  school,  and — 
and,  I will  give  an  annual  subscription  the  same  amount.” 

“ Mr.  Headley  receives  the  subscriptions,  my  lord,”  said 
Grace,  drawing  back  from  the  proffered  note. 

“ Of  course,”  quoth  Scoutbush,  trusting  again  to  an  impromptu : 
“but  this  is  for  yourself — a small  mark  of  our  sense  of  your — * 
your  usefulness.” 

If  any  one  has  expected  that  Grace  is  about  to  conduct  herself, 
during  this  interview,  in  any  wise  like  a prophetess,  tragedy 
queen,  or  other  exalted  personage  ; to  stand  upon  her  native  in- 
dependence, and  scorning  the  bounty  of  an  aristocrat,  to  read 
the  said  aristocrat  a lecture  on  his  duties  and  responsibilities,  as 


278 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


landlord  of  Aberalva  town ; then  will  that  person  he  altogether 
disappointed.  It  would  have  looked  very  well,  doubtless : but  it 
would  have  been  equally  untrue  to  Grace’s  womanhood,  and  to 
her  notions  of  Christianity.  Whether  all  men  were  or  were  not 
equal  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  was  a notion  which  had  never  crossed 
her  mind.  She  knew  that  they  would  all  be  equal  in  heaven, 
and  that  was  enough  for  her.  Meanwhile,  she  found  lords  and 
ladies  on  earth,  and  seeing  no  open  sin  in  the  fact  of  their  being 
richer  and  more  powerful  than  she  was,  she  supposed  that  God 
had  put  them  where  they  were  ; and  she  accepted  them  simply 
as  facts  of  His  kingdom.  Of  course  they  had  their  duties,  as 
every  one  has  : but  what  they  were  she  did  not  know,  or  care  to 
know.  To  their  own  master  they  stood  or  fell ; her  business 
was  with  her  own  duties,  and  with  her  own  class,  whose  good 
and  evil  she  understood  by  practical  experience.  So  when  a 
live  lord  made  his  appearance  in  her  school,  she  looked  at  him 
with  vague  wonder  and  admiration,  as  a being  out  of  some  other 
planet,  for  whom  she  had  no  gauge  or  measure  : she  only  believed 
that  he  had  vast  powers  of  doing  good  unknown  to  her;  and 
was  delighted  by  seeing  him  condescend  to  play  with  her  children. 
The  truth  may  be  degrading,  but  it  must  be  told.  People,  of 
-course,  who  know  the  hollowness  of  the  world,  and  the  vanity 
of  human  wealth  and  honour,  and  are  accustomed  to  live  with 
lords  and  ladies,  see  through  all  that,  just  as  clearly  as  any 
American  republican  does;  and  care  no  more  about  walking 
down  Pall-Mall  with  the  Marquis  of  Carabas,  who  can  get  them 
a place  or  a living,  than  with  Mr.  Two-shoes,  who  can  only 
borrow  ten  pounds  of  them  : but  Grace  was  a poor  simple  West 
country  girl ; and  as  such  we  must  excuse  her,  if,  curtseying  to 
the  very  ground,  with  tears  of  gratitude  in  her  eyes,  she  took 
the  ten-pound  note,  saying  to  herself,  “ Thank  the  Good  Lord ! 
This  will  just  pay  mother’s  account  at  the  mill.” 

Likewise  we  must  excuse  her  if  she  trembled  a little,  being  a 
young  woman — though  being  also  a lady,  she  lost  no  jot  of  self- 
possession — when  his  lordship  went  on  in  as  important  a tone  as 
he  could — 

“ And — and  I hear,  Miss  Harvey,  that  you  have  a great 
influence  over  these  children’s  parents.” 

“I  am  afraid  some  one  has  misinformed  your  lordship,”  said 
Grace,  in  a low  voice. 

“ Ah  ! ” quoth  Southbush,  in  a tone  meant  to  be  re-assuring ; 
“ it  is  quite  proper  in  you  to  say  so.  What  eyes  she  has  ! and 
what  hair  ! and  what  hands,  too  ! ” (This  was,  of  course,  spoken 
mentally.)  “But  we  know  better;  and  we  want  you  to  speak 
to  them,  whenever  you  can,  about  keeping  their  houses  clean, 
and  all  that,  in  case  the  cholera  shouJ  1 come.”  And  Scoutbush 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WAfERWITCH. 


279 


stopped.  It  was  a quaint  errand  enough;  and  besides,  as  he  told 
Mellot  frankly,  “ I could  think  of  nothing  hut  those  wonderful 
eyes  of  hers,  and  how  like  they  were  to  La  Signora’s.” 

Grace  had  been  looking  at  the  ground  all  the  while.  How  she 
threw  upon  him  one  of  her  sudden,  startled  looks,  and  answered 
slowly,  as  her  eyes  dropped  again  : 

“I  have,  my  lord ; but  they  will  not  listen  to  me.” 

“ Won’t  listen  to  you  ? Then  to  whom  will  they  listen  ? ” 

“ To  God,  when  He  speaks  Himself,”  said  she,  still  looking  on 
the  ground.  Scoutbush  winced  uneasily.  He  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  solemn  words,  spoken  so  solemnly. 

“ Do  you  hear  this,  Campbell  ? Miss  Harvey  has  been  talking 
to  these  people  already,  and  they  won’t  hear  her.” 

“ Miss  Harvey,  I dare  say,  is  not  astonished  at  that.  It  is  the 
usual  fate  of  those  who  try  to  put  a little  common  sense  into 
their  fellow-men.” 

ct  Well,  and  I shall,  at  all  events,  go  off  and  give  them  my 
mind  on  the  matter  ; though  I suppose  (with  a glance  at  Grace) 
I can’t  expect  to  be  heard  where  Miss  Harvey  has  not  been.” 

“ Oh,  my  lord,”  cried  Grace,  “ if  you  would  but  speak — ” 
And  there  she  stopped ; for  was  it  her  place  to  tell  him  his 
duty  ? Ho  doubt  he  had  wiser  people  than  her  to  counsel  him. 

But  the  moment  the  party  left  the  school,  Grace  dropped 
into  her  chair ; her  head  fell  on  the  table,  and  she  burst  into  an 
agony  of  weeping,  which  brought  the  whole  school  round  her. 

“ Oh,  my  darlings  ! my  darlings  ! ” cried  she  at  last,  looking 
up,  and  clasping  them  to  her  by  twos  and  threes ; “Is  there  no 
way  of  saving  you?  Ho  way?  Then  we  must  make  the  more 
haste  to  be  good,  and  be  all  ready  when  Jesus  comes  to  take  us.” 
And  shaking  off  her  passion  with  one  strong  effort,  she  began 
teaching  those  children  as  she  had  never  taught  them  before,  with 
a voice,  a look,  as  of  Stephen  himself  when  he  saw  the  heavens 
opened. 

Tor  that  burst  of  weeping  was  the  one  single  overflow  of  long 
pent  passion,  disappointment,  and  shame. 

She  had  tried,  indeed.  Ever  since  Tom’s  conversation  and 
Trank’s  sermon  had  poured  in  a flood  of  new  light  on  the 
meaning  of  epidemics,  and  bodily  misery,  and  death  itself,  she 
had  been  working  as  only  she  could  work ; exhorting,  explain- 
ing, coaxing,  warning,  entreating  with  tears,  offering  to  perform 
with  her  own  hands  the  most  sickening  offices ; to  become,  if  no 
one  else  would,  the  common  scavenger  of  the  town.  There  was 
no  depth  to  which,  in  her  noble  enthusiasm,  she  would  not  have 
gone  down.  And  behold,  it  had  been  utterly  in  vain  ! Ah  ! the 
bitter  disappointment  of  finding  her  influence  fail  her  utterly, 
the  first  time  that  it  was  required  for  a great  practical  work ! 


28  0 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


They  would  let  her  talk  to  them  about  their  souls,  then  ! — They 
would  even  amend  a few  sins  here  and  there,  of  which  they  had 
been  all  along  as  well  aware  as  she.  .But  to  he  convinced  of  a 
new  sin ; to  have  their  laziness,  pride,  covetousness,  touched ; 
that,  she  found,  was  what  they  would  not  bear ; and  where  she 
had  expected,  if  not  thanks,  at  least  a fair  hearing,  she  had  been 
met  with  peevishness,  ridicule,  even  anger  and  insult. 

Her  mother  had  turned  against  her.  “Why  would  she  go 
getting  a bad  name  from  every  one,  and  driving  away  customers  1” 
The  preachers,  who  were  (as  is  too  common  in  West  country 
villages)  narrow,  ignorant,  and  somewhat  unscrupulous  men, 
burned  against  her.  They  had  considered  the  cholera,  if  it  was 
to  come,  as  so  much  spiritual  capital  for  themselves ; an  occasion 
which  they  could  “ improve ” into  a sensation,  perhaps  a “re- 
vival ; ” and  to  explain  it  upon  mere  physical  causes  was  to  rob 
them  of  their  harvest.  Coarse  viragos  went  even  further  still, 
and  dared  to  ask  her  “ whether  it  was  the  curate  or  the  doctor 
she  was  setting  her  cap  at ; for  she  never  had  anything  in  her 
mouth  now  but  what  they  had  said  h ” And  those  words  went 
through  her  heart  like  a sword.  Was  she  disinterested  i Was 
not  love  for  Thurnall,  the  wish  to  please  him,  mingling  with  all 
her  earnestness  ? And  again,  was  not  self-love  mingling  with  it  1 
and  mingling,  too,  with  the  disappointment,  even  indignation, 
which  she  felt  at  having  failed  ? Ah — what  hitherto  hidden 
spots  of  self-conceit,  vanity,  pharisaic  pride,  that  bitter  trial  laid 
bare,  or  seemed  to  lay,  till  she  learned  to  thank  her  unseen  Guide 
even  for  it ! 

Perhaps  she  had  more  reason  to  be  thankful  for  her  humilia- 
tion than  she  could  suspect,  with  her  narrow  knowledge  of  the 
world.  Perhaps  that  sudden  downfall  of  her  fancied  queenship 
was  needed,  to  shut  her  out,  once  and  for  all,  from  that  down- 
ward path  of  spiritual  intoxication,  followed  by  spiritual  knavery, 
which,  as  has  been  hinted,  was  but  too  easy  for  her. 

But  meanwhile  the  whole  thing  was  but  a fresh  misery.  To 
bear  the  burden  of  Cassandra  day  and  night,  seeing  in  fancy — 
which  yet  was  truth — the  black  shadow  of  death  hanging  over 
that  doomed  place ; to  dream  of  whom  it  might  sweep  off ; — 
perhaps,  worst  of  all,  her  mother,  unconfessed  and  impenitent ! 

Too  dreadful ! An d dreadful,  too,  the  private  troubles  which 
were  thickening  fast ; and  which  seemed,  instead  of  drawing  her 
mother  to  her  side,  to  estrange  her  more  and  more,  for  some 
mysterious  reason.  Her  mother  was  heavily  in  debt.  This  ten 
pounds  of  Lord  Scoutbush’s  would  certainly  clear  off  the  miller’s 
bill.  Her  scanty  quarter’s  salary,  which  was  just  due,  would 
clear  off  a little  more.  But  there  was  a long  standing  account  of 
the  wholesale  grocer’s  for  five-and-twenty  pounds,  for  which  Mrs* 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH. 


281 


Harvey  had  given  a two  months’  bill.  That  bill  would  become 
due  early  in  September : and  how  to  meet  it,  neither  mother 
nor  daughter  knew  ; it  lay  like  a black  plague-spot  on  the  future, 
only  surpassed  in  horror  by  the  cholera  itself. 

It  might  have  been  three  or  four  days  after,  that  Claude, 
lounging  after  breakfast  on  deck,  was  hailed  from  a dingy,  which 
contained  Captain  Willis  and  Gentleman  Jan. 

“ Might  we  take  the  liberty  of  coming  aboard  to  speak  with 
your  honour  ? ” 

“ By  all  means  ! ” and  up  the  side  they  came ; their  faces 
evidently  big  with  some  great  purpose,  and  each  desirous  that 
the  other  should  begin. 

“ You  speak,  Captain,”  says  Jan,  “ you’m  oldest and  then 
he  began  himself.  “ If  you  please,  Sir,  we’m  come  on  a sort  of 
deputation — Why  don’t  you  tell  the  gentleman,  Captain  ] ” 

Willis  seemed  either  doubtful  of  the  success  of  his  deputation, 
or  not  over  desirous  thereof;  for,  after  trying  to  put  John  Beer 
forward  as  spokesman,  he  began  : — 

“ I’m  sorry  to  trouble  you,  Sir,  but  these  young  men  will  have 
it  so — and  no  shame  to  them — on  a matter  which  I think  will 
come  to  nothing.  But  the  truth  is,  they  have  heard  that  you 
are  a great  painter,  and  they  have  taken  it  into  their  heads  to 
ask  you  to  paint  a picture  for  them.” 

“ Hot  to  ask  you  a favour,  Sir,  mind  ! ” interrupted  Jan ; 
“ we’d  scorn  to  be  so  forward ; we’ll  subscribe  and  pay  for  it,  in 
course,  any  price  in  reason.  There’s  forty  and  more  promised 
already.” 

“You  must  tell  me,  first,  what  the  picture  is  to  be  about,” 
said  Claude,  puzzled  and  amused. 

“ Why  didn’t  you  tell  the  gentleman,  Captain  ? ” 

“ Because  I think  it  is  no  use ; and  I told  them  all  so  from 

the  first.  The  truth  is,  Sir,  they  want  a picture  of  my of 

our  schoolmistress,  to  hang  up  in  the  school  or  somewhere — ” 

“ That’s  it,  dra’ed  out  all  natural,  in  paints,  and  her  bonnet, 
and  her  shawl,  and  all,  just  like  life ; we  was  a going  to  ax  you 
to  do  one  of  they,  garrytypes  ; but  she  would  have’n  noo  price  ; 
besides  tan’t  cheerful  looking  they  sort,  with  your  leave ; too 
much  blackamoor  wise,  you  see,  and  over  thick  about  the  nozzes, 
most  times,  to  my  liking ; so  we’ll  pay  you  and  welcome,  all  you 
ask.” 

“ Too  much  blackamoor  wise,  indeed  ! ” said  Claude,  amused. 

“ And  how  much  do  you  think  I should  ask  1 ” 

Ho  answer. 

“ We’ll  settle  that  presently.  Come  down  into  the  cabin 
with  me.” 

u Why,  Sir,  we  couldn’t  make  so  bold.  His  lordship — ” 


282 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATJK R WITCH. 


“ Oh,  his  lordship’s  on  shore,  and  I am  skipper  for  the  time  ; 
and  if  not,  he’d  he  delighted  to  see  two  good  seamen  here.  So 
come  along.” 

And  down  they  went. 

“ Bowie,  bring  these  gentlemen  some  sherry  ! ” cried  Claude, 
turning  over  his  portfolio.  “ Now  then,  my  worthy  friends,  is 
that  the  sort  of  thing  you  want  ? ” 

And  he  spread  on  the  table  a water-colour  sketch  of 
Grace. 

The  two  worthies  gazed  in  silent  delight,  and  then  looked  at 
each  other,  and  then  at  Claude,  and  then  at  the  picture. 

“ Why,  Sir,”  said  Willis ; “ I couldn’t  have  believed  it ! 
You’ve  got  the  very  smile  of  her,  and  the  sadness  of  her  too,  as 
if  you’d  known  her  a hundred  year ! ” 

“ ’Tis  beautiful ! ” sighed  Jan,  half  to  himself.  Poor  fellow, 
he  had  cherished,  perhaps,  hopes  of  winning  Grace  after  all. 

“ Well,  will  that  suit  you?” 

“ Why,  Sir,  make  so  bold  : — but  what  we  thought  on  was  to 
have  her  drawn  from  head  to  foot,  and  a child  standing  by  her 
like,  holding  to  her  hand,  for  a token  as  she  was  schoolmistress ; 
and  the  pier  behind,  may  be,  to  signify  as  she  was  our  maid,  and 
belonged  to  Aberalva.” 

“ A capital  thought ! Upon  my  word,  you’re  men  of  taste 
here  in  the  West;  but  what  do  you  think  I should  charge  for 
such  a picture  as  that  ? ” 

“Name  your  price,  Sir,”  said  Jan,  who  was  in  high  good 
humour  at  Claude’s  approbation. 

“ Two  hundred  guineas  ? ” 

J an  gave  a long  whistle. 

“ I told  you  so,  Captain  Beer,”  said  Willis,  “ or  ever  we  got 
into  the  boat.” 

“Now,”  said  Claude,  laughing,  “I’ve  two  prices,  one’s  two 
hundred,  and  the  other  is  just  nothing ; and  if  you  won’t  agree 
to  the  one,  you  must  take  the  other.” 

“ But  we  wants  to  pay,  we’d  take  it  an  honour  to  pay,  if  we 
could  afford  it.” 

“Then  wait  till  next  Christmas.” 

“ Christmas  1 ” 

“ My  good  friend,  pictures  are  not  painted  in  a day.  Next 
Christmas,  if  I live,  I’ll  send  you  what  you  shall  not  be  ashamed 
of,  or  she  either,  and  do  you  club  your  money  and  put  it  into  a 
handsome  gold  frame.” 

“ But,  Sir,”  said  Willis,  “ this  will  give  you  a sight  of  trouble, 
and  all  for  our  fancy.” 

“ I like  it,  and  I like  you  ! You’re  fine  fellows,  who  know  a 
noble  creature  when  Uod  sends  her  to  you ; and  I should  be 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWITCH.  283 

ashamed  to  ask  a farthing  of  your  money.  There,  no  more 
words ! ” 

“ Well,  you  are  a gentleman,  Sir  ! ” said  Gentleman  Jan. 

“ And  so  are  you,”  said  Claude.  “Now  I’ll  show  you  some 
more  sketches.” 

“ I should  like  to  know,  Sir,”  asked  Willis,  “ how  you  got  at 
that  likeness.  She  would  not  hear  of  the  thing,  and  that’s  why 
I had  no  liking  to  come  troubling  you  about  nothing.” 

Claude  told  them,  and  Jan  laughed  heartily,  while  Willis 
said, — 

“Do  you  know,  Sir,  that’s  a relief  to  my  mind.  There  is  no 
sin  in  being  drawn,  of  course ; but  I didn’t  like  to  think  my  maid 
had  changed  her  mind,  when  once  she’d  made  it  up.” 

So  the  deputation  retired  in  high  glee,  after  Willis  had  entreated 
Claude  and  Beer  to  keep  the  thing  a secret  from  Grace. 

It  befell  that  Claude,  knowing  no  reason  why  he  should  not  tell 
Frank  Headley,  told  him  the  whole  story,  as  a proof  of  the  chivalr> 
of  his  parishioners,  in  which  he  would  take  delight. 

Frank  smiled,  but  said  little ; his  opinion  of  Grace  was  altering 
fast.  A circumstance  which  occurred  a few  days  after  altered  il 
still  more. 

Scoutbush  had  gone  forth,  as  he  threatened,  and  exploded  in 
every  direction,  with  such  effect  as  was  to  be  supposed.  Every- 
body promised  his  lordship  to  do  everything.  But  when  his 
lordship’s  back  was  turned,  everybody  did  just  nothing.  They 
knew  very  well  that  he  could  not  make  them  do  anything ; and 
what  was  more,  in  some  of  the  very  worst  cases,  the  evil  was  past 
remedy  now,  and  better  left  alone.  For  the  drought  went  on 
pitiless.  A copper  sun,  a sea  of  glass,  a brown  easterly  blight, 
day  after  day,  while  Thurnall  looked  grimly  aloft  and  mystified 
the  sailors  with — 

“ Fine  weather  for  the  Flying  Dutchman,  this  !” 

“ Coffins  sail  fastest  in  a calm.” 

“ You’d  best  all  out  to  the  quay-head,  and  whistle  for  a wind : 
it  would  be  an  ill  one  that  would  blow  nobody  good  just 
now ! ” 

But  the  wind  came  not,  nor  the  rain ; and  the  cholera  crept 
nearer  and  nearer : while  the  hearts  of  all  in  Aberalva  were 
hardened,  and  out  of  very  spite  against  the  agitators,  they  did 
less  than  they  would  have  done  otherwise.  Even  the  inhabitants 
of  the  half-a-dozen  cottages,  which  Scoutbush,  finding  that  they 
were  in  his  own  hands,  whitewashed  by  main  force,  filled  the 
town  with  lamentations  over  his  lordship’s  tyranny.  True — 
their  pigstyes  were  either  under  their  front  windows ; or  within 
two  feet  of  the  wall : but  to  pull  down  a poor  man’s  pig- stye  ! — 
they  might  ever  so  well  be  Booshian  slaves  ! — and  all  the  town 


284 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERWiTCH. 


was  on  their  side;  for  pigs  were  the  normal  inhabitants  of 
Aberalva  hack-yards. 

Tardrew’s  wrath,  of  course,  knew  no  hounds;  and  meeting 
Thurnall  standing  at  Willis’s  door,  with  Frank  and  Mellot,  he 
fell  upon  him  open-mouthed. 

4 4 Well,  Sir  ! I’ve  a crow  to  pick  with  you.” 

44  Pick  away !”  quoth  Tom. 

44  What  business  have  you  meddling  between  his  lordship  and 
me  1” 

44  That  is  my  concern,”  quoth  Tom,  who  evidently  was  not 
disinclined  to  quarrel.  44 1 am  not  here  to  give  an  account  to 
you  of  what  I choose  to  do.” 

44  Til  tell  you  what,  Sir ; ever  since  you’ve  been  in  this  parish 
you’ve  been  meddling,  you  and  Mr.  Headley  too, — I’ll  say  it  to 
your  faces, — I’ll  speak  the  truth  to  any  man,  gentle  or  simple; 
and  that  ain’t  enough  for  you,  hut  you  must  come  over  that  poor 
half-crazed  girl,  to  set  her  plaguing  honest  people,  with  telling 
’em  they’ll  all  he  dead  in  a month,  till  nobody  can  eat  their 
suppers  in  peace  : and  that  again  ain’t  enough  for  you,  hut  you 
must  go  to  my  lord  with  your — ” 

44  Hold  hard  ! ” quoth  Tom.  44  Don’t  start  two  hares  at  once. 
Let’s  hear  that  about  Miss  Harvey  again  ! ” 

44  Miss  Harvey  ? Why,  you  should  know  better  than  I.” 

44  Let’s  hear  what  you  know.” 

44  Why,  ever  since  that  night  Trehooze  caught  you  and  her 
together — ” 

44  Stop  ! ” said  Tom,  44  that’s  a lie  ! ” 

44  Everybody  says  so.” 

44  Then  everybody  lies,  that’s  all ; and  you  may  say  I said  so, 
and  take  care  you  don’t  say  it  again  yourself.  But  what  ever 
since  that  night  ? ” 

44  Why,  I suppose  you  come  over  the  poor  thing  some  how,  as 
you  seem  minded  to  do  over  every  one  as  you  can.  But  she’s 
been  running  up  and  down  the  town  ever  since,  preaching  to  ’em 
about  windilation,  and  drains,  and  smells,  and  cholera,  and  it’s 
being  a judgment  of  the  Lord  against  dirt,  till  she’s  frightened  all 
the  women  so,  that  many’s  the  man  as  has  had  to  forbid  her  his 
house. — But  you  know  that  as  well  as  I.” 

44 1 never  heard  a word  of  it  before  : but  now  I have,  I’ll  give 
you  my  opinion  on  it.  That  she  is  a noble,  sensible  girl,  and  that 
you  are  all  a set  of  fools  who  are  not  worthy  of  her ; and  that  the 
greatest  fool  of  the  whole  is  you,  Mr.  Tardrew.  And  when  the 
cholera  comes,  it  will  serve  you  exactly  right  if  you  are  the  first 
man  carried  off  by  it.  How,  Sir,  you  have  given  me  your  mind, 
and  I have  given  you  mine,  and  I do  not  wish  to  hear  anything 
more  of  you.  Good  morning  ! ” 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERW1TCH. 


285 


“ You  hold  your  head  mighty  high,  to  he  sure,  since  you’ve 
had  the  run  of  his  lordship’s  yacht.” 

“ If  you  are  impertinent,  Sir,  you  will  repent  it.  I shall  take 
care  to  inform  his  lordship  of  this  conversation.” 

“ My  dear  Thurnall,”  said  Headley,  as  Tardrew  withdrew, 
muttering  curses,  “ the  old  fellow  is  certainly  right  on  one  point.” 
“ What  then  ? ” 

“ That  you  have  wonderfully  changed  your  tone.  Who  was 
to  eat  any  amount  of  dirt,  if  he  could  but  save  his  influence 
thereby  % ” 

“ I have  altered  my  plans.  I shan’t  stay  here  long ; I shall 
just  see  this  cholera  over,  and  then  vanish.” 

“Ho?” 

“Yes.  I cannot  sit  here  quietly,  listening  to  the  war-news. 
It  makes  me  mad  to  be  up  and  doing.  I must  eastward-ho,  and 
see  if  trumps  will  not  turn  up  for  me  at  last.  Why,  I know  the 
whole  country,  half-a-dozen  of  the  languages, — oh,  if  I could  get 
some  secret-service  work  ! Go  I must.  At  w^orst  I can  turn  my 
hand  to  doctoring  Bashi-bazouks.” 

“ My  dear  Tom,  when  will  you  settle  down  like  other  men?  ” 
cries  Claude. 

“ I would  now,  if  there  was  an  opening  at  Whitbury,  and  low 
as  life  would  be,  I’d  face  it  for  my  father’s  sake.  But  here  I 
» cannot  stay.” 

Both  Claude  and  Headley  saw  that  Tom  had  reasons  which  he 
did  not  choose  to  reveal.  However,  Claude  was  taken  into  his 
confidence  that  very  afternoon. 

“ I shall  make  a fool  of  myself  with  that  schoolmistress.  I 
have  been  near  enough  to  it  a dozen  times  already ; and  this 
magnificent  conduct  of  hers  about  the  cholera  has  given  the 
finishing  stroke  to  my  brains.  If  I stay  on  here,  I shall  marry 
her  : I know  I shall ! and  I won’t  ! — I’d  go  to-morrow,  if  it 
were  not  that  I’m  bound,  for  my  own  credit,  to  see  the  cholera 
safe  into  the  town,  and  out  again.” 

Tom  did  not  hint  a word  of  the  lost  money,  or  of  the  month’s 
delay  which  Grace  had  asked  of  him.  The  month  was  drawing 
fast  to  a close  now,  however  : but  no  sign  of  the  belt.  Still, 
Tom  had  honour  enough  in  him  to  be  silent  on  the  point,  even 
to  Claude. 

“ By  the  bye,  have  you  heard  from  the  wanderers  this  week?” 
“ I heard  from  Sabina  this  morning.  Marie  is  very  poorly,  I 
fear.  They  have  been  at  Kissingen,  bathing  ; and  are  going  to 
Bertrich  : somebody  has  recommended  the  baths  there.” 

“ Bertrich  ! Where’s  Bertrich  ? ” 

“ The  most  delicious  little  nest  of  a place,  half  way  up  the 
Moselle,  among  the  volcano  craters.” 


286 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WATERW1TCH. 


“ Don’t  know  it.  Have  they  found  that  Yankee  ? n 
“ No.” 

“ Why,  I thought  Sahina  had  a whole  detective  force  of  pels 
and  proteges,  from  Boulogne  to  Borne.” 

“ Well,  she  has  at  least  heard  of  him  at  Baden ; and  then 
again  at  Stuttgard  : hut  he  has  escaped  them  as  yet.” 

“ And  poor  Marie  is  breaking  her  heart  all  the  while  ? I’ll 
tell  you  what,  Claude,  it  will  be  well  for  him  if  he  escapes  me 
as  well  as  them.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ I certainly  shan’t  go  to  the  East  without  shaking  hands  once 
more  with  Marie  and  Sabina ; and  if  in  so  doing  I pass  that 
fellow,  it’s  a pity  if  I don’t  have  a snap  shot  at  him.” 

“ Tom  ! Tom  ! I had  hoped  your  duelling  days  were  over.” 

“ They  will  be  over,  when  one  can  get  the  law  to  punish  such 
puppies ; but  not  till  then.  Hang  the  fellow  ! What  business 
had  he  with  her  at  all,  if  he  didn’t  intend  to  marry  her  ? ” 

“ I tell  you,  as  I told  you  before,  it  is  she  who  will  not  marry 
him.” 

“ And  yet  she’s  breaking  her  heart  for  him.  I can  see  it  all 
plain  enough,  Claude.  She  has  found  him  out  only  too  late.  I 
know  him — luxurious,  selfish,  blaze ; would  give  a thousand 
dollars  to-morrow,  I believe,  like  the  old  Boman,  for  a new 
pleasure  : and  then  amuses  himself  with  her  till  he  breaks  her 
heart ! Of  course  she  won’t  marry  him : because  she  knows 
that  if  he  found  out  her  Quadroon  blood — ah,  that’s  it ! I’ll 
lay  my  life  he  has  found  it  out  already,  and  that  is  why  he  has 
bolted !” 

Claude  had  no  answer  to  give.  That  talk  at  the  Exhibition 
made  it  only  too  probable. 

“ You  think  so  yourself,  I see  ! Very  well.  You  know  that 
whatever  I have  been  to  others,  that  girl  has  nothing  against 
me.” 

“Nothing  against  you?  Why,  she  owes  you  honour,  life, 
everything.” 

“Never  mind  that.  Only  when  I take  a fancy  to  begin,  I’ll 
carry  it  through.  I took  to  that  girl,  for  poor  Wyse’s  sake  ; and 
I’ll  behave  by  her  to  the  last  as  he  would  wish  ; and  he  who 
insults  her,  insults  me.  I won’t  go  out  of  my  way  to  find 
Stangrave : but  if  I do,  I’ll  have  it  out  ! ” 

“ Then  you  will  certainly  fight.  My  dearest  Tom,  do  look 
into  your  own  heart,  and  see  whether  you  have  not  a grain  or 
two  of  spite  against  him  left.  I assure  you  you  judge  him  too 
harshly.” 

“ Hum — that  must  take  its  chance.  At  least,  if  wc  fight,  we 
fight  fairly  and  equally.  He  is  a brave  man — I will  do  him  that 


COMB  AT  LAST 


1287 


justice — and  a cool  one;  and  used  to  be  a sweet  shot.  So  be 
has  just  as  good  a chance  of  shooting  me,  if  I am  in  the  wrong, 
as  I have  of  shooting  him,  if  he  is.” 

“ But  your  father  ? ” 

“ I know.  That  is  very  disagreeable ; and  all  the  more  so 
because  I am  going  to  insure  my  life — a pretty  premium  they 
will  make  me  pay  ! — and  if  Pm  killed  in  a duel,  it  will  be 
forfeited.  However,  the  only  answer  to  that  is,  that  either'  I 
shan’t  fight,  or  if  I do,  I shan’t  be  killed.  You  know,  I don’t 
believe  in  being  killed,  Claude.” 

“ Tom  ! Tom  ! The  same  as  ever  ! ” said  Claude,  sadly. 

“ Well,  old  man,  and  what  else  would  you  have  me  h Nobody 
could  ever  alter  me,  you  know  ; and  why  should  I alter  myself  ? 
Here  I am,  after  all,  alive  and  jolly ; and  there  is  old  daddy,  as 
comfortable  as  he  ever  can  be  on  earth  : and  so  it  will  be  to  the 
end  of  the  chapter.  There  ! let’s  talk  of  something  else.” 


CHAPTEE  XYI. 

COME  AT  LAST. 

Now,  as  if  in  all  things  Tom  Thurnall  and  John  Briggs  were 
fated  to  take  opposite  sides,  Campbell  lost  ground  with  Elsley 
as  fast  as  he  gained  it  with  Thurnall.  Elsley  had  never  forgiven 
himself  for  his  passion  that  first  morning.  He  had  shown  Camp- 
bell his  weak  side,  and  feared  and  disliked  him  accordingly. 
Beside,  what  might  not  Thurnall  have  told  Campbell  about  him  1 
And  what  use  might  not  the  Major  make  of  his  secret  Besides, 
Elsley’s  dread  and  suspicion  increased  rapidly  when  he  discovered 
that  Campbell  was  one  of  those  men  who  live  on  terms  of  pecu- 
liar intimacy  with  many  women ; whether  for  his  own  good  or 
not,  still  for  the  good  of  the  women  concerned.  Eor  only  by 
honest  purity,  and  moral  courage  superior  to  that  of  the  many,  is 
that  dangerous  post  earned ; and  women  will  listen  to  the  man 
who  will  tell  them  the  truth,  however  sternly ; and  will  bow,  as 
before  a guardian  angel,  to  the  strong  insight  of  him  whom  they 
have  once  learned  to  trust.  But  it  is  a dangerous  office,  after  all, 
for  layman  as  well  as  for  priest,  that  of  father-confessor.  The 
experience  of  centuries  has  shown  that  they  must  needs  exist, 
wherever  fathers  neglect  their  daughters,  husbands  their  wives ; 
wherever  the  average  of  the  women  cannot  respect  the  average  of 
the  men.  But  the  experience  of  centuries  should  likewise  have 
taught  men,  that  the  said  father-confessors  are  no  objects  of 
envy ; that  their  temptations  to  become  spiritual  coxcombs  (the 
worst  species  of  all  coxcombs),  if  not  intriguers,  bullies,  and 


288 


COME  AT  LAST. 


worse,  are  so  extreme,  that  the  soul  which  is  proof  against  them 
must  he  either  very  great,  or  very  small  indeed.  Whether 
Campbell  was  altogether  proof,  will  be  seen  hereafter.  But  one 
day  Elsley  found  out  that  such  was  Campbell’s  influence,  and 
did  not  love  him  the  more  for  the  discovery. 

They  were  walking  round  the  garden  after  dinner ; Scoutbush 
was  licking  his  foolish  lips  over  some  common-place  tale  of 
scandal. 

“ I tell  you,  my  dear  fellow,  she’s  booked  ; and  Mellot  knows 
it  as  well  as  I.  He  saw  her  that  night  at  Lady  A.’s.” 

“ We  saw  the  third  act  of  the  comi-tragedy.  The  fourth  is 
playing  out  now.  We  shall  see  the  fifth  before  the  winter.” 

“Non  sine  sanguine  !”  said  the  Major. 

“ Serve  the  wretched  stick  right,  at  least,”  said  Scoutbush. 
“ What  right  had  he  to  marry  such  a pretty  woman  ? ” 

“ What  right  had  they  to  marry  her  up  to  him?”  said  Claude. 
“ I don’t  blame  poor  January.  I suppose  none  of  us,  gentlemen, 
would  have  refused  such  a pretty  toy,  if  we  could  have  afforded 
it  as  he  could.” 

“ Whom  do  you  blame  then?”  asked  Elsley. 

“ Fathers  and  mothers  who  prate  hypocritically  about  keeping 
their  daughters’  minds  pure ; and  then  abuse  a girl’s  ignorance, 
in  order  to  sell  her  to  ruin.  Let  them  keep  her  mind  pure,  in 
heaven’s  name ; but  let  them  consider  themselves  all  the  more 
bound  in  honour  to  use  on  her  behalf  the  experience  in  which 
she  must  not  share.” 

“ Well,”  drawled  Scoutbush,  “ I don’t  complain  of  her  bolting; 
she’s  a very  sweet  creature,  and  always  was : but,  as  Longreach 
says, — and  a very  witty  fellow  he  is,  though  you  laugh  at  him, 
— 6 If  she’d  kept  to  us,  I shouldn’t  have  minded : but  as  Guards- 
men, we  must  throw  her  over.  It's  an  insult  to  the  whole  Guards, 
my  dear  fellow,  after  refusing  two  of  us,  to  marry  an  attorney, 
and  after  all  to  bolt  with  a plunger.’  ” 

What  bolting  with  a plunger  might  signify,  Elsley  knew 
not : but  ere  he  could  ask,  the  Major  rejoined,  in  an  abstracted 
voice — 

“ God  help  us  all ! And  this  is  the  girl  I recollect,  two  years 
ago,  singing  there  in  Cavendish  Square,  as  innocent  as  a nestling 
thrush  !” 

“ Poor  child  !”  said  Mellot,  “ sold  at  first — perhaps  sold  again 
now.  The  plunger  has  bills  out,  and  she  has  ready  money.  I 
know  her  settlements.” 

“ She  shan’t  do  it,”  said  the  Major  quietly  : “ I’ll  write  to  her 
to-night.” 

Elsley  looked  at  him  keenly.  “You  think,  then,  Sir,  that 
you  can,  by  simply  writing,  stop  this  intrigue?” 


COME  AT  LAST. 


289 


The  Major  did  not  answer.  He  was  deep  in  thought. 

“ I shouldn’t  wonder  if  he  did,”  said  Scoutbush ; “ two^to  one 
on  his  baulking  the  plunger  ! ” 

“ She  is  at  Lord ’s  now,  at  those  silly  private  theatri- 

cals. Is  he  there  1 ” 

“ Ho,”  said  Mellot ; “he  tried  hard  for  an  invitation — stooped 
to  work  me  and  Sabina.  I believe  she  told  him  that  she  would 
sooner  see  him  in  the  Morgue  than  help  him  ; and  he  is  gone  to 
the  moors  now,  I believe.” 

“There  is  time  then:  I will  write  to  her  to-night;”  and 
Campbell  took  up  his  hat  and  went  home  to  do  it. 

“ Ah,”  said  Scoutbusii,  taking  his  cigar  meditatively  from  his 
mouth,  “ I wonder  how  he  does  it  ! It’s  a gift,  I always  say,  a 
wonderful  gift ! Before  he  has  been  a week  in  a house,  he’ll 
have  the  confidence  of  every  woman  in  it, — and  ’gad,  he  does  it 
by  saying  the  rudest  things  ! — and  the  confidence  of  all  the 
youngsters  the  week  after.” 

“ A somewhat  dangerous  gift,”  said  Elsley,  drily. 

“Ah,  yes;  he  might  play  tricks  if  he  chose  : but  there’s  the 
wonder,  that  he  don’t.  I’d  answer  for  him  with  my  own  sister. 
I do  every  day  of  my  life — for  I believe  he  knows  how  many 
pins  she  puts  into  her  dress — and  yet  there  he  is.  As  I said 
once  in  the  mess-room — there  was  a youngster  there  who  took 
on  himself  to  be  witty,  and  talked  about  the  still  sow  supping 
the  milk — the  snob  ! You  recollect  him,  Mellot  ? the  attorney’s 
son  from  Brompton,  who  sold  out ; — we  shaved  his  mustachios, 
put  a bear  in  his  bed,  and  sent  him  home  to  his  ma — And  he 
said  that  Major  Campbell  might  be  very  pious,  and  all  that : 
but  he’d  warrant — they  were  the  fellow’s  own  words, — that  he 
took  his  lark  on  the  sly,  like  other  men — the  snob ! so  I told 
him,  I was  no  better  than  the  rest,  and  no  more  I am ; but  if 
any  man  dared  to  say  that  the  Major  was  not  as  honest  as  his 
own  sister,  I was  his  man  at  fifteen  paces.  And  so  I am, 
Claude !” 

All  which  did  not  increase  Elsley’s  love  to  the  Major,  conscious 
as  he  was  that  Lucia’s  confidence  was  a thing  which  he  had 
not  wholly ; and  which  it  would  be  very  dangerous  to  him  for 
any  other  man  to  have  at  all. 

Into  the  drawing-room  they  went.  Erank  Headley  had  been 
asked  up  to  tea ; and  he  stood  at  the  piano,  listening  to  Valencia’s 
? singing. 

As  they  came  in,  the  maid  came  in  also.  “ Mr.  Thurnall 
wished  to  speak  to  Major  Campbell.” 

Campbell  went  out,  and  returned  in  two  minutes  somewhat 
hurriedly. 

“ Mr.  Thurnall  wishes  Lord  Scoutbush  to  be  informed  at 
* 

u 


290 


COME  AT  LAST. 


once,  and  I think  it  is  better  that  you  should  all  know  it — 
that — it  is  *a  painful  surprise  :■ — hut  there  is  a man  ill  in  the 
street,  whose  symptoms  he  does  not  like,  he  says.” 

“ Cholera*?”  said  Elsley. 

“ Call  him  in,”  said  Scouthush. 

“ He  had  rather  not  come  in,  he  says.” 

“ What ! is  it  infectious  ?” 

“ Certainly  not,  if  it  he  cholera,  but—” 

“ He  don’t  wish  to  frighten  people,  quite  right (with  a half 
glance  at  Elsley;)  “ hut  is  it  cholera,  honestly?” 

“ I fear  so.” 

“ Oh,  my  children !”  said  poor  Mrs.  Yavasour. 

“ Will  live  pounds  help  the  poor  fellow !”  said  Scouthush. 

“ How  far  off  is  it?”  asked  Elsley. 

“ Unpleasantly  near.  I was  going  to  advise  you  to  move  at 
once.” 

“ You  hear  what  they  are  saying  ?”  asked  Valencia  of  Frank. 

“ Yes,  I hear  it,”  said  Frank,  in  a quiet  meaning  tone. 
Valencia  thought  that  he  was  half  pleased  with  the  news. 
Then  she  thought  him  afraid ; for  he  did  not  stir. 

“ You  will  go  instantly,  of  course  ?” 

“ Of  course  I shall.  Good-hye ! Do  not  he  afraid.  It  is 
not  infectious.” 

“ Afraid?  And  a soldier’s  sister?”  said  Valencia,  with  a toss 
of  her  beautiful  head,  by  way  of  giving  force  to  her  somewhat 
weak  logic. 

Frank  left  the  room  instantly,  and  met  Thurnall  in  the 
passage. 

“ Well,  Headley,  it’s  here  before  we  sent  for  it,  as  had  luck 
usually  is.” 

“ I know.  Let  me  go  ! Where  is  it  ? Whose  house  ?”  asked 
Frank  in  an  excited  tone. 

“ Humph !”  said  Thurnall,  looking  intently  at  him,  “ that  is 
just  what  I shall  not  tell  you.” 

“ Hot  tell  me?” 

“Ho,  you  are  too  pale,  Headley.  Go  hack  and  get  two  or 
three.glasses  of  wine,  and  then  we  will  talk  of  it.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? I must  go  instantly ! It  is  my 
duty, — my  parishioner  !” 

“ Look  here,  Headley ! Are  you  and  I to  work  together  in 
this  business,  or  are  we  not?” 

“ Why  not,  in  heaven’s  name?” 

“ Then  I want  you,  not  for  cure,  hut  for  prevention.  You  can 
do  them  no  good  when  they  have  once  got  it.  You  may  prevent 
dozens  from  having  it  in  the  next  four-and-twenty  hours,  if  you 
will  he  guided  by  me.’ 


COME  AT  LAST. 


291 


u But  my  business  is  with  their  souls,  Thurnall.” 

“ Exactly ; — to  give  them  the  consolations  of  religion,  as 
they  call  it.  You  will  give  them  to  the  people  who  have  not 
taken  it.  You  may  bring  them  safe  through  it  by  simply 
keeping  up  their  spirits ; while  if  you  waste  your  time  on  poor 
dying  wretches — ” 

“ Thurnall,  you  must  not  talk  so ! I will  do  all  you  ask  : 
but  my  place  is  at  the  death-bed,  as  well  as  elsewhere.  These 
perishing  souls  are  in  my  care.” 

“ And  how  do  you  know,  pray,  that  they  are  perishing?” 
answered  Tom,  with  something  very  like  a sneer.  “ And  if 
they  were,  do  you  honestly  believe  that  any  talk  of  yours  can 
change  in  five  minutes  a character  which  has  been  forming  for 
years,  or  prevent  a man’s  going  where  he  ought  to  go, — which, 
I suppose,  is  the  place  to  which  he  deserves  to  go?” 

“ I do,”  said  Erank,  firmly. 

“ Well.  It  is  a charitable  and  hopeful  creed.  My  great 
dread  was,  lest  you  should  kill  the  poor  wretches  before  their 
time,  by  adding  to  the  fear  of  cholera  the  fear  of  hell.  I 
caught  the  Methodist  parson  at  that  work  an  hour  ago,  took 
him  by  the  shoulders,  and  shot  him  out  into  the  street.  But, 
my  dear  Headley  ” (and  Tom  lowered  his  voice  to  a whisper), 
“ wherever  poor  Tom  Beer  deserved  to  go  to,  he  is  gone  to  it 
already.  He  has  been  dead  this  twenty  minutes.” 

“ Tom  Beer  dead  ? One  of  the  finest  fellows  in  the  town ! 
And  I never  sent  for?” 

“ Don’t  speak  so  loud,  or  they  will  hear  you.  I had  no  time 
to  send  for  you ; and  if  I had,  I should  not  have  sent,  for  he  was 
past  attending  to  you  from  the  first.  He  brought  it  with  him,  I 
suppose,  from  C * * *.  Had  had  warnings  for  a week,  and 
neglected  them.  How  listen  to  me : that  man  was  but  two 
hours  ill ; as  sharp  a case  as  I ever  saw,  even  in  the  West 
Indies.  You  must  summon  up  all  your  good  sense,  and  play  the 
man  for  a fortnight;  for  it’s  coming  on  the  poor  souls  like 
hell ! ” said  Tom  between  his  teeth,  and  stamped  his  foot  upon 
the  ground.  Erank  had  never  seen  him  show  so  much  feeling  ; 
he  fancied  he  could  see  tears  glistening  in  his  eyes. 

“ I will,  so  help  me  God  ! ” said  Erank. 

Tom  held  out  his  hand,  and  grasped  Erank’s. 

“ I know  you  will.  You’re  all  right  at  heart.  Only  mind 
three  things  : don’t  frighten  them ; don’t  tire  yourself ; don’t  go 
about  on  an  empty  stomach ; and  then  we  can  face  the  worst 
like  men.  And  now  go  in,  and  say  nothing  to  these  people.  If 
they  take  a panic,  we  shall  have  some  of  them  down  to-night  as 
sure  as  fate.  Go  in,  keep  quiet,  persuade  them  to  bolt  anywhere 
on  earth  by  daylight  to-morrow.  Then  go  home,  eat  a good 


292 


COME  AT  LAST. 


supper,  and  come  across  to  me  ; and  if  I'm  out,  I’ll  leave  word 
■where.” 

Frank  went  back  again ; he  found  Campbell,  who  had  had 
his  cue  from  Tom,  urging  immediate  removal  as  strongly  as  he 
could,  without  declaring  the  extent  of  the  danger.  Valencia  was 
for  sending  instantly  for  a fly  to  the  nearest  town,  and  going  to 
stay  at  a watering-place  some  forty  miles  off.  Elsley  was  willing 
enough  at  heart,  but  hesitated ; he  knew  not,  at  the  moment, 
poor  fellow,  where  to  find  the  money.  His  wife  knew  that  she 
could  borrow  of  Valencia ; but  she,  too,  was  against  the  place. 
The  cholera  would  be  in  the  air  for  miles  round.  The  journey 
in  the  hot  sun  would  make  the  children  sick  and  ill ; and 
watering-place  lodgings  were  such  horrid  holes,  never  ventilated, 
and  full  of  smells — people  caught  fevers  at  them  so  often. 
Valencia  was  inclined  to  treat  this  as  “mother’s  nonsense;”  but 
Major  Campbell  said  gravely,  that  Mrs.  Vavasour  was  perfectly 
right  as  to  fact,  and  her  arguments  full  of  sound  reason ; whereon 
Valencia  said  that  “of  course  if  Lucia  thought  it,  Major  Camp- 
bell would  prove  it ; and  there  was  no  arguing  with  such  Solons 
as  he — ” 

Which  Elsley  heard,  and  ground  his  teeth.  Whereon  little 
Scouthush  cried  joyfully, — 

“ I have  it ; why  not  go  by  sea?  Take  the  yacht,  and  go ! 
Where  ? Of  course,  I have  it  again.  ’Pon  my  word  I’m 
growing  clever,  Valencia,  in  spite  of  all  your  prophecies.  Go  up 
the  Welsh  coast.  Nothing  so  healthy  and  airy  as  a sea-voyage  : 
sea  as  smooth  as  a mill-pond,  too,  and  likely  to  be.  And  then 

land,  if  you  like,  at  Port  Madoc,  as  I meant  to  do ; and  there 
are  my  rooms  at  Beddgelert  lying  empty.  Engaged  them  a week 
ago,  thinking  I should  be  there  by  now;  so  you  may  as  well 
keep  them  aired  for  me.  Come,  Valencia,  pack  up  your  milli- 
nery ! Lucia,  get  the  cradles  ready,  and  we’ll  have  them  all  on 
board  by  twelve.  Capital  plan,  Vavasour,  isn’t  it?  and,  by 
Jove,  what  stunning  poetry  you  will  write  there  under  Snow- 
don ! ” 

“ But  will  you  not  want  your  rooms  yourself,  Lord  Scoutbush  ? ” 
said  Elsley. 

“ My  dear  fellow,  never  mind  me.  I shall  go  across  the 
country,  I think,  see  an  old  friend,  and  get  some  otter-hunting. 
Don’t  think  of  me,  till  you’re  there,  and  then  send  the  yacht 
back  for  me.  She  must  be  doing  something,  you  know  ; and 
the  men  are  only  getting  drunk  every  day  here.  Come — no 
arguing  about  it,  or  I shall  turn  you  all  out  of  doors  into  the 

lane,  eh  ? ” 

And  the  little  fellow  laughed  so  good-naturedly,  that  Elsley 
could  not  help  liking  him  : and  feeling  that  he  would  be  both  a 


COME  AT  LAST. 


292 


fool,  and  cruel  to  his  family,  if  he  refused  so  good  an  offer,  he 
gave  in  to  the  scheme,  and  went  out  to  arrange  matters  : while 
Scoutbush  went  out  into  the  hall  with  Campbell,  and  scrambled 
into  his  pea-jacket,  to  go  off  to  the  yacht  that  moment. 

“ You’ll  see  to  them,  there’s  a good  fellow,”  as  they  lighted 
their  cigars  at  the  door.  “ That  Vavasour  is  greener  than  grass, 
you  know,  taut  pis  for  my  poor  sister.” 

“lam  not  going.” 

“ Not  going?” 

“ Certainly  not ; so  my  rooms  will  be  at  their  service ; and 
you  had  much  better  escort  them  yourself.  It  will  be  much  less 
disagreeable  for  Vavasour,  who  knows  nothing  of  commanding 
sailors,”  or  himself,  thought  the  Major,  “ than  finding  himself 
master  of  your  yacht  in  your  absence,  and  you  will  get  your 
fishing  as  you  intended.” 

“ But  why  are  you  going  to  stay  ? ” 

“ Oh,  I have  not  half  done  with  the  sea-beasts  here.  I found 
two  new  ones  yesterday.” 

“ Quaint  old  beetle-hunter  you  are,  for  a man  who  has  fought 
in  half-a-dozen  battles ! ” and  Scoutbush  walked  on  silently  for 
five  minutes. 

Suddenly  he  broke  out — 

“ I cannot ! By  George,  I cannot;  and  what’s  more,  I won’t ! ” 
“What?” 

“Bun  away.  It  will  look  so — so  cowardly,  and  there’s  the 
truth  of  it,  before  those  fine  fellows  down  there  : and  just  as  I 
am  come  among  them,  too  ! The  commander-in-chief  to  turn 
tail  at  the  first  shot ! Though  I can’t  be  of  any  use,  I know, 
and  I should  have  liked  a fortnight’s  fishing  so,”  said  he  in  a 
dolorous  voice,  “ before  going  to  be  eaten  up  with  flies  at 
Varna— for  this  Crimean  expedition  is  all  moonshine.” 

“ Don’t  be  too  sure  of  that,”  said  Campbell.  “We  shall  go  ; 
and  some  of  us  who  go  will  never  come  back,  Ereddy.  I know 
those  Bussians  better  than  many,  and  I have  been  talking  them 
over  lately  with  Thurnall,  who  has  been  in  their  service.” 

“ Has  he  been  at  Sevastopol  ? ” 

“No.  Almost  the  only  place  on  earth  where  he  has  not 
been  : but  from  all  he  says,  and  from  all  I know,  we  are  under- 
valuing our  foes,  as  usual,  and  shall  smart  for  it ! ” 

“ We’ll  lick  them,  never  fear  ! ” 

“ Yes  ; but  not  at  the  first  round.  Scoutbush,  your  life  has 
been  child’s  play  as  yet.  You  are  going  now  to  see  life  in 
earnest, — the  sort  of  life  which  average  people  have  been  living, 
in  every  age  and  country,  since  Adam’s  fall ; a life  of  sorrow  and 
danger,  tears  and  blood,  mistake,  confusion,  and  perplexity  ; and 
you  will  find  it  a very  new  sensation  ; and,  at  first,  a very  ugly 


294 


COME  AT  LAST. 


one.  All  the  more  reason  for  doing  what  good  deeds  you  can 
before  you  go  ; for  you  may  have  no  time  left  to  do  any  on  the 
other  side  of  the  sea.” 

Scoutbush  was  silent  awhile. 

“ Well ; I’m  afraid  of  nothing,  I hope  : only  I wish  one  could 
meet  this  cholera  face  to  face,  as  one  will  those  Eussians,  with 
a good  sword  in  one’s  hand,  and  a good^  horse  between  one’s 
knees  ; and  have  a chance  of  giving  him  what  he  brings,  instead 
of  being  kicked  off  by  the  cowardly  Eockite,  no  one  knows  how ; 
and  not  even  from  behind  a turf  dyke,  but  out  of  the  very  clouds.” 
“ So  we  all  say,  in  every  battle,  Scoutbush.  Who  ever  sees 
the  man  who  sent  the  bullet  through  him  ? And  yet  we  fight 
on.  Do  you  not  think  the  greatest  terror,  the  only  real  terror, 
in  any  battle,  is  the  chance  shots  which  come  from  no  one  knows 
where,  and  hit  no  man  can  guess  whom1?  If  you  go  to  the 
Crimea,  as  you  will,  you  will  feel  what  I felt  at  the  Cape,  and 
Cabul,  and  the  Punjab,  twenty  times, — the  fear  of  dying  like  a 
dog,  one  knew  not  how.” 

“ And  yet  I’ll  fight,  Campbell ! ” 

“ Of  course  you  will,  and  take  your  chance.  Do  so  now  !” 
“By  Jove,  Campbell — I always  say  it — you’re  the  most 
sensible  man  I ever  met ; and,  by  J ove,  the  doctor  comes  the 
next.  My  sister  shall  have  the  yacht,  and  I’ll  go  up  to  Penalva.” 
“You  will  do  two  good  deeds  at  once,  then,”  said  the  Major. 
“You  will  do  what  is  right,  and  you  will  give  heart  to  many  a 
poor  wretch  here.  Believe  me,  Scoutbush,  you  will  never  repent 
of  this.” 

“By  Jove,  it  always  does  one  good  to  hear  you  talk  in  that 
way,  Campbell ! One  feels — I don’t  know — so  much  of  a man 
when  one  is  with  you ; not  that  I shan’t  take  uncommonly  good 
care  of  myself,  old  fellow ; that  is  but  fair  : but  as  for  running 
away,  as  I said,  why — why — why  I can’t,  and  so  I won’t ! ” 

“By  the  bye,”  said  the  Major,  “there  is  one  thing  which  I 
9 have  forgotten,  and  which  they  will  never  recollect.  Is  the 
yacht  victualled — with  fresh  meat  and  green  stuff,  I mean  % ” 

“ Whew — w — ” 

“ I will  go  back,  borrow  a lantern,  and  forage  in  the  garden, 
like  an  old  campaigner.  I have  cut  a salad  with  my  sword 
before  now.” 

“ And  made  it  in  your  helmet,  with  macassar  sauce  ?”  And 
the  two  went  their  ways. 

Meanwhile,  before  they  had  left  the  room,  a notable  conversa- 
tion had  been  going  on  between  Valencia  and  Headley. 

Headley  had  re-entered  the  room  so  much  paler  than  he  went 
out,  that  everybody  noticed  his  altered  looks.  Valencia  chose  to 
attribute  them  to  fear. 


COME  AT  LAST.  295 

‘‘  So  ! Are  you  returned  from  the  sick  man  already,  Mr. 
Headley  ? ” asked  she,  in  a marked  tone. 

44  I have  been  forbidden  by  the  doctor  to  go  near  him  at 
present,  Miss  St.  Just,”  said  he  quietly,  but  in  a sort  of  under- 
voice,  which  hinted  that  he  wished  her  to  ask  no  more  questions. 
A shade  passed  over  her  forehead,  and  she  began  chatting  rather 
noisily  to  the  rest  of  the  party,  till  Elsley,  her  brother,  and 
Campbell  went  out. 

Valencia  looked  up  at  him,  expecting  him  to  go  too.  Mrs. 
Vavasour  began  bustling  about  the  room,  collecting  little  valu- 
ables, and  looking  over  her  shoulders  at  the  now  unwelcome 
guest.  But  Frank  leaned  back  in  a cosey  arm-chair,  and  did  not 
stir.  His  hands  were  clasped  on  his  knees  ; he  seemed  lost  in 
thought ; very  pale : but  there  was  a firm  set  look  about  his 
lips  which  attracted  Valencia’s  attention.  Once  he  looked  up  in 
Valencia’s  face,  and  saw  that  she  was  looking  at  him.  A flush 
came  over  his  cheeks  for  a moment,  and  then  he  seemed  as 
impassive  as  ever.  What  could  he  want  there?  How  very 
gauche  and  rude  of  him ; so  unlike  him,  too  ! And  she  said, 
civilly  enough,  to  him,  “I  fear,  Mr.  Headley,  we  must  begin 
packing  up  now.” 

44  I fear  you  must,  indeed,”  answered  he,  as  if  starting  from  a 
dream.  He  spoke  in  a tone,  and  with  a look,  which  made  both 
the  women  start ; for  what  they  meant  it  was  impossible  to 
doubt. 

4 4 I fear  you  must.  I have  foreseen  it  a long  time  ; and  so,  I 
fear  (and  he  rose  from  his  seat),  must  I,  unless  I mean  to  be  very 
rude.  You  will  at  least  take  away  with  you  the  knowledge, 
that  you  have  given  to  one  person’s  existence,  at  least  for  a few 
weeks,  pleasure  more  intense  than  he  thought  earth  could  hold.” 

44  I trust  that  pretty  compliment  was  meant  for  me,”  said 
Lucia,  half  playful,  half  reproving. 

44  I am  sure  that  it  ought  not  to  have  been  meant  for  me,” 
said  Valencia,  more  downright  than  her  sister.  Both  could  see 
for  whom  it  was  meant,  by  the  look  of  passionate  worship  which 
Frank  fixed  on  a face  which,  after  all,  seemed  made  to  be 
worshipped. 

44 1 trust  that  neither  of  you,”  answered  he,  quietly,  44  think 
me  impertinent  enough  to  pretend  to  make  love,  as  it  is  called, 
to  Miss  St.  Just.  I know  who  she  is,  and  , who  I am.  Gentle- 
man as  I am,  and  the  descendant  of  gentlemen  ” (and  Frank 
looked  a little  proud,  as  he  spoke,  and  very  handsome),  44 1 see 
clearly  enough  the  great  gulf  fixed  between  us ; and  I like  it ; 
for  it  enables  me  to  say  truth  which  I otherwise  dare  not  have 
spoken;  as  a brother  might  say  it  to  a sister,  or  a subject  to  a 
queen.  Either  analogy  will  do  equally  well,  and  equally  ill.” 


296 


COME  AT  LAST. 


Frank,  without  the  least  intending  it,  had  taken  up  the  very 
strongest  military  position.  Let  a man  once  make  a woman 
understand,  or  fancy,  that  he  knows  that  he  is  nothing  to  her ; 
and  confess  boldly  that  there  is  a great  gulf  fixed  between  them, 
which  he  has  no  mind  to  bridge  over : and  then  there  is  little 
that  he  may  not  see  or  do,  for  good  or  for  evil. 

And  therefore  it  was  that  Lucia  answered  gently,  “lam  sure 
you  are  not  well,  Mr.  Headley.  The  excitement  of  the  night 
has  been  too  much  for  you/’ 

“Do  I look  excited,  my  dear  Madam  ?”  he  answered  quietly*. 
“ I assure  you  that  I am  as  calm  as  a man  must  he  who  believes 
that  he  has  hut  a few  days  to  live,  and  trusts,  too,  that  when  he 
dies,  he  will  he  infinitely  happier  than  he  ever  has  been  on  earth, 
and  lay  down  an  office  which  he  has  never  discharged  other- 
wise than  ill ; which  has  been  to  him  a constant  source  of  shame 
and  sorrow.” 

“ Do  not  speak  so  ! ” said  Valencia,  with  her  Irish  impetuous 
generosity;  “you  are  unjust  to  yourself.  We  have  watched 
you,  felt  for  you,  honoured  you,  even  when  we  differed  from 
you  ” — What  more  she  would  have  said,  I know  not,  hut  at 
that  moment  Elsley’s  peevish  voice  was  heard  calling  over  the 
stairs,  “ Lucia ! Lucia  ! ” 

“ Oh  dear ! He  will  wake  the  children  !”  cried  Lucia,  looking 
at  her  sister,  as  much  as  to  say,  “ how  can  I leave  you?” 

“ Kun,  run,  my  dear  creature!”  said  Valencia,  with  a self- 
confident  smile  : and  the  two  were  left  alone. 

The  moment  that  Mrs.  Vavasour  left  the  room,  there  vanished 
from  Frank's  face  that  intense  look  of  admiration  which  had 
made  even  Valencia  uneasy.  He  dropped  his  eyes,  and  his  voice 
faltered  as  he  spoke  again.  He  acknowledged  the  change  in 
their  position,  and  Valencia  saw  that  he  did  so,  and  liked  him 
the  better  for  it. 

“I  shall  not  repeat,  Miss  St.  Just,  now  that  we  are  alone, 
what  I said  just  now  of  the  pleasure  which  I have  had  during 
the  last  month.  I am  not  poetical,  or  given  to  string  metaphors 
together ; and  I could  only  go  over  the  same  dull  words  once 
more.  Eut  I could  ask,  if  I were  not  asking  too  much,  leave  to 
prolong  at  least  a shadow  of  that  pleasure  to  the  last  moment. 
That  I shall  die  shortly,  and  of  this  cholera,  is  with  me  a fixed 
idea,  which  nothing  can  remove.  Ho,  Madam — it  is  useless  to 
combat  it ! Eut  had  I anything,  by  which  to  the  last  moment  I 
could  bring  hack  to  my  fancy  what  has  been  its  sunlight  for  so 
long ; even  if  it  were  a scrap  of  the  hem  of  your  garment,  aye,  a 
grain  of  dust  off  your  feet — God  forgive  me  ! He  and  His  mercy 
ought  to  he  enough  to  keep  me  up : hut  one’s  weakness  may  he 
excured  for  clinging  to  such  slight  floating  straws  of  comfort.” 


COME  AT  LAST. 


297 


Valencia  paused,  startled,  and  yet  affected.  How  she  had 
played  with  this  deep  pure  heart ! And  yet,  was  it  pure  ? Did 
he  wish,  by  exciting  her  pity,  to  trick  her  into  giving  him  what 
lie  might  choose  to  consider  a token  of  affection  h 

And  she  answered  coldly  enough — 

“ I should  he  sorry,  after  what  you  have  just  said,  to  chance 
hurting  you  by  refusing.  I put  it  to  your  own  good  feeling — 
have  you  not  asked  somewhat  too  much  ? ” 

“ Certainly  too  much,  Madam,  in  any  common  case,,,  said  he, 
quite  unmoved.  “ Certainly  too  much,  if  I asked  you  for  it,  as 
I do  not,  as  the  token  of  an  affection  which  I know  well  you  do 
not,  cannot  feel.  But — take  my  words  as  they  stand — were  you 
to — It  would  be  returned  if  I die,  in  a few  weeks  ; and  returned 
still  sooner  if  I live.  And,  Madam,”  said  he  lowering  his  voice, 
“ I vow  to  you,  before  Him  who  sees  us  both,  that,  as  far  as  I am 
concerned,  no  human  being  shall  ever  know  of  the  fact.” 

Frank  had  at  last  touched  the  wrong  chord. 

44  What,  Mr.  Headley  ? Can  you  think  that  I am  to  have 
secrets  in  common  with  you,  or  with  any  other  man  ? Ho,  Sir  ! 
If  I granted  your  request,  I should  avow  it  as  openly  as  I shall 
Tefuse  it.” 

And  she  turned  sharply  toward  the  door. 

Frank  Headley  was  naturally  a shy  man  : but  extreme  need 
sometimes  bestows  on  shyness  a miraculous  readiness — (else  why, 
in  the  long  run,  do  the  shy  men  win  the  best  wives  ? which  is  a 
fact,  and  may  be  proved  by  statistics,  at  least  as  well  as  anything 
else  can)  so  he  quietly  stepped  to  Valencia’s  side,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice — 

44  You  cannot  avow  the  refusal  half  as  proudly  as  I shall  avow 
the  request,  if  you  will  but  wait  till  your  sister’s  return.  Both 
are  unnecessary,  I think  : but  it  will  only  be  an  honour  to  me  to 
confess,  that,  poor  curate  as  I am — ” 

44  Hush  ! ” and  Valencia  walked  quietly  up  to  the  table,  and 
began  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a book,  to  gain  time  for  her 
softened  heart  and  puzzled  brain. 

In  five  minutes  Frank  was  beside  her  again.  The  book  was 
Tennyson’s  4 4 Princess.”  She  had  wandered — who  can  tell  why? 
—to  that  last  exquisite  scene,  which  all  know ; and  as  Valencia 
read,  Frank  quietly  laid  a finger  on  the  book,  and  arrested  her 
eyes  at  last — 

“ If  you  be,  what  I think  you,  some  sweet  dream, 
****** 

Stoop  down,  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I die ! ” 

Valencia  shut  the  book  up  hurriedly  and  angrily.  A moment 
after  she  had  made  up  her  mind  what  to  do,  and  with  the 


298 


COME  AT  LAST. 


slightest  gesture  in  the  world,  motioned  Frank  proudly  and  coldly 
to  follow  her  hack  into  the  window.  Had  she  been  a country 
girl,  she  would  have  avoided  the  ugly  matter ; but  she  was  a 
•woman  of  the  world  enough  to  see  that  she  must,  for  her  own 
sake  and  his,  talk  it  out  reasonably. 

“What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Headley?  I must  ask  ! You  told 
me  just  now  that  you  had  no  intention  of  making  love  to  me.” 

“ I told  you  the  truth,”  said  he,  in  his  quiet  impassive  voice. 
“ I fixed  on  these  lines  as  a pis  alter  ; and  they  have  done  all, 
and  more  than  I wished,  by  bringing  you  back  here  for  at  least 
a moment.” 

“ And  do  you  suppose — you  speak  like  a rational  man, 
therefore,  I must  treat  you  as  one — that  I can  grant  your 
request  ? ” 

“Why  not?  It  is  an  uncommon  ona  If  I have  guessed 
your  character  aright,  you  are  able  to  do  uncommon  things. 
Had  I thought  you  enslaved  by  etiquette,  and  by  the  fear  of 
a world  which  you  can  make  bow  at  your  feet  if  you  will, 
I should  not  have  asked  you.  But,” — and  here  his  voice  took 
a tone  of  deepest  earnestness — “grant  it — only  grant  it,  and 
you  shall  never  repent  it.  Never,  never,  never  will  I cast  one 
shadow  over  a light  which  has  been  so  glorious,  so  life-giving ; 
which  I watched  with  delight,  and  yet  lose  without  regret.  Go 
your  way,  and  God  be  with  you  ! I go  mine ; grant  me  but 
a fortnight’s  happiness,  and  then,  let  what  will  come  ! ” 

He  had  conquered.  The  quiet  earnestness  of  the  voice,  the 
child-like  simplicity  of  the  manner,  of  which  every  word  con- 
veyed the  most  delicate  flattery — yet,  she  could  see,  without 
intending  to  flatter,  without  an  after  thought — all  these  had 
won  the  impulsive  Irish  nature.  For  all  the  dukes  and  mar- 
quises in  Belgravia  she  would  not  have  done  it ; for  they  would 
have  meant  more  than  they  said,  even  when  they  spoke  more 
clumsily  : but  for  the  plain  country  curate  she  hesitated,  and 
asked  herself,  “ What  shall  I give  him  ? ” 

The  rose  from  her  bosom  ? No.  That  was  too  significant  at 
once,  and  too  common-place ; besides,  it  might  wither,  and  he 
find  an  excuse  for  not  restoring  it.  It  must  be  something 
valuable,  stately,  formal,  which  he  must  needs  return.  And  she 
drew  off  a diamond  hoop,  and  put  it  quietly  into  his  hand. 

“You  promise  to  return  it  ? ” 

“ I promised  long  ago.” 

He  took  it,  and  lifted  it — she  thought  that  he  was  going  to 
press  it  to  his  lips.  Instead,  he  put  it  to  his  forehead,  bowing 
forward,  and  moved  it  slightly.  She  saw  that  he  made  with  it 
the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

“ I thank  you?”  he  said,  with  a look  of  quiet  gratitude.  “ I 


299 


baalzebub’s  banquet. 

expected  as  much,  when  you  came  to  understand  my  request. 
Again,  thank  you!”  and  he  drew  hack  humbly,  and  left  her 
there  alone ; while  her  heart  smote  her  bitterly  for  all  the 
foolish  encouragement  which  she  had  given  to  one  so  tender, 
and  humble,  and  delicate  and  true. 

And  so  did  Frank  Headley  get  what  he  wanted ; by  that 
plain  earnest  simplicity,  which  has  more  power  (let  worldlings 
pride  themselves  as  they  will  on  their  knowledge  of  women) 
than  all  the  cunning  wiles  of  the  most  experienced  rake ; and 
only  by  aping  which,  after  all,  can  the  rake  conquer.  It  was 
a strange  thing  for  Valencia  to  do,  no  doubt : but  the  strange 
things  which  are  done  in  the  world  (which  are  some  millions 
daily)  are  just  what  keep  the  world  alive. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
baalzebub’s  banquet. 

The  next  day  there  were  three  cholera  cases  : the  day  after 
there  were  thirteen. 

He  had  come  at  last*  Baalzebub,  God  of  flies,  and  of  what 
flies  are  bred  from;  to  visit  his  self-blinded  worshippers,  and 
bestow  on  them  his  own  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Dishonour. 
He  had  come  suddenly,  capriciously,  sportively,  as  he  sometimes 
comes ; as  he  had  come  to  Newcastle  the  summer  before,  while 
yet  the  rest  of  England  was  untouched.  He  had  wandered  all 
but  harmless  about  the  West  country  that  summer ; as  if  his 
maw  had  been  full  glutted  five  years  before,  when  he  sat  for  many 
a week  upon  the  Dartmoor  hills,  amid  the  dull  brown  haze, 
and  sun-burnt  bents,  and  dried-up  water  courses  of  white  dusty 
granite,  looking  far  and  wide  over  the  plague-struck  land,  and 
listening  to  the  dead-bell  booming  all  day  long  in  Tavistock 
churchyard.  But  he  was  come  at  last,  with  appetite  more  fierce 
than  ever,  and  had  darted  aside  to  seize  on  Aberalva,  and  not  to 
let  it  go  till  he  had  sucked  his  fill. 

And  all  men  moved  about  the  streets  slowly,  fearfully ; con- 
scious of  some  awful  unseen  presence,  which  might  spring  on 
them  from  round  every  corner ; some  dreadful  inevitable  spell, 
which  lay  upon  them  like  a nightmare  weight ; and  walked  to 
and  fro  warily,  looking  anxiously  into  each  other’s  faces,  not  to 
ask,  “ How  are  you  'l  ” but  u How  am  I ? ” “ Do  I look  as 

if  — V1  and  glanced  up  ever  and  anon  restlessly,  as  if  they 
expected  to  see,  like  the  Greeks,  in  their  tainted  camp,  by  Troy, 
the  pitiless  Sun-god  shooting  his  keen  arrows  down  on  beast 
and  man. 


300  baalzebub’s  banquet. 

All  night  long  the  curdled  cloud  lay  low  upon  the  hills, 
wrapping  in  its  hot  blanket  the  sweltering  breathless  town; 
and  rolled  off  sullenly  when  the  sun  rose  high,  to  let  him  pour 
down  his  glare,  and  quicken  into  evil  life  all  evil  things.  For 
Baalzebub  is  a sunny  fiend  ; and  loves  not  storm  and  tempest, 
thunder,  and  lashing  rains ; but  the  broad  bright  sun,  and 
broad  blue  sky,  under  which  he  can  take  his  pastime  merrily, 
and  laugh  at  all  the  shame  and  agony  below  ; and,  as  he  did  at 
his  great  banquet  in  New  Orleans  once,  madden  all  hearts  the 
more  by  the  contrast  between  the  pure  heaven  above  and  the 
foul  hell  below. 

And  up  and  down  the  town  the  foul  fiend  sported,  now  here 
now  there;  snapping  daintily  at  unexpected  victims,  as  if  to 
make  confusion  worse  confounded ; . to  belie  Thurnall’s  theories 
and  prognostics,  and  harden  the  hearts  of  fools  by  fresh  excuses 
for  believing  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  drains  and  water ; 
that  he  was  “ only  ” — such  an  only  ! — “ the  Visitation  of  God.” 

He  has  taken  old  Beer’s  second  son ; and  now  he  clutches  at 
the  old  man  himself;  then  across  the  street  to  Gentleman  Jan, 
his  eldest : but  he  is  driven  out  from  both  houses  by  chloride  of 
lime  and  peat  dust,  and  the  colony  of  the  Beers  has  peace 
awhile. 

Alas ! there  are  victims  enough  and  to  spare  beside  them,  too 
ready  for  the  sacrifice,  and  up  the  main  street  he  goes  un- 
abashed, springing  in  at  one  door  and  at  another,  on  either  side 
of  the  street,  but  fondest  of  the  western  side,  where  the  hill 
slopes  steeply  down  to  the  house-backs. 

He  fleshes  his  teeth  on  every  kind  of  prey.  The  drunken 
cobbler  dies,  of  course  : but  spotless  cleanliness  and  sobriety 
does  not  save  the  mother  of  seven  children,  who  hat,  been 
soaking  her  brick  floor  daily  with  water  from  a poisoned  well, 
defiling  where  she  meant  to  clean.  Youth  does  not  save  the 
buxom  lass,  who  has  been  filling  herself,  as  girls  will  do,  with 
unripe  fruit:  nor  innocence  the  two  fair  children  who  were 
sailing  their  feather-boats  yesterday  in  the  quay-pools,  as  they 
have  sailed  them  for  three  years  past,  and  found  no  hurt : piety 
does  not  save  the  bed-ridden  old  dame,  bed-ridden  in  the  lean-to 
garret,  who  moans,  “ It  is  the  Lord!”  and  dies.  It  is  “ the 
Lord  ” to  her,  though  Baalzebub  himself  be  the  angel  of  release. 

And  yet  all  the  while  sots  and  fools  escape  where  wise  men 
fall;  weakly  women,  living  amid  all  wretchedness,  nurse,  un- 
harmed, strong  men  who  have  breathed  fresh  air  all  day.  Of 
one  word  of  Scripture  at  least  Baalzebub  is  mindful ; for  “ one  is 
taken  and  another  left.” 

Still,  there  is  a method  in  his  seeming  madness.  His  eye  falls 
on  a blind  alley,  running  back  from  the  main  street,  backed  at 


301 


baalzebub’s  banquet. 

the  upper  end  by  a high  wall  of  rock.  There  is  a God-send 
for  him — a devil’s-send,  rather,  to  speak  plain  truth  : and  in  he 
dashes ; and  never  leaves  that  court,  let  brave  Tom  wrestle  with 
him  as  he  may,  till  he  has  taken  one  from  every  house. 

That  court  belonged  to  Treluddra,  the  old  fish-jowder.  He 
must  do  something.  Thurnall  attacks  him ; Major  Campbell, 
Headley ; the  neighbours  join  in  the  cry ; for  there  is  no  mis- 
taking cause  and  effect  there,  and  no  one  bears  a great  love  to 
him ; besides,  terrified  and  conscience-stricken  men  are  glad  of 
a scapegoat;  and  some  of  those  who  were  his  stoutest  backers 
in  the  vestry  are  now,  in  their  terror,  the  loudest  against  him, 
ready  to  impute  the  whole  cholera  to  him.  Indeed,  old  Beer  is 
ready  to  declare  that  it  was  Treluddra’s  fish-heaps  which  poisoned 
him  and  his  : so,  all  but  mobbed,  the  old  sinner  goes  up — to  set 
the  houses  to  rights  ? Ho ; to  curse  the  whole  lot  for  a set  of 
pigs,  and  order  them  to  clean  the  place  out  themselves,  or  he 
will  turn  them  into  the  street.  He  is  one  of  those  base  natures, 
whom  fact  only  lashes  into  greater  fury, — a Pharaoh  whose  heart 
the  Lord  himself  can  only  harden ; such  men  there  are,  and 
women,  too,  grown  grey  in  lies,  to  reap  at  last  the  fruit  of  lies. 
But  he  carries  back  with  him  to  his  fish-heaps  a little  invisible 
somewhat  which  he  did  not  bring ; and  ere  nightfall  he  is  dead 
hideously  ; he,  his  wife,  his  son  : — and  now  the  Beers  are  down 
again,  and  the  whole  neighbourhood  of  Treluddra’s  house  is  wild 
with  disgusting  agony. 

How  the  fiend  is  hovering  round  the  fish-curing  houses  : but 
turns  back,  disgusted  with  the  pure  scent  of  the  tan-yard,  where 
not  hides,  but  nets  are  barked  ; skips  on  board  of  a brig  in  the 
quay-pool ; and  a poor  collier's  ’prentice  dies,  and  goes  to  his  own 
place.  What  harm  has  he  done  ? Is  it  his  sin  that,  ill-fed  and 
well-beaten  daily,  he  has  been  left  to  sleep  on  board,  just  opposite 
the  sewer’s  mouth,  in  a berth  some  four  feet  long  by  two  feet  high 
and  broad  ? 

Or  is  it  that  poor  girl’s  sin  who  was  just  now  in  Heale’s  shop, 
talking  to  Miss  Heale  safe  and  sound,  that  she  is  carried  back 
into  it,  in  half-an-hour’s  time,  fainting,  shrieking?  One  must 
draw  a veil  over  the  too  hideous  details. 

Ho,  not  her  fault  : but  there,  at  least,  the  curse  has  not  come 
without  a cause.  For  she  is  Tardrew’s  daughter. 

But  whither  have  we  got  ? How  long  has  the  cholera  been  in 
Aberalva  ? Five  days,  five  minutes,  or  five  years  ? How  many 
suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Frank  Headley  put  into  his  bosom 
Valencia’s  pledge? 

It  would  be  hard  for  him  to  tell ; and  hard  for  many  more  : 
for  all  the  days  have  passed  as  in  a fever  dream.  To  cowards  the 
time  has  seemed  endless ; and  every  moment,  ere  their  term  shall 


302 


BAALZEBUB  S BANQUET. 


come,  an  age  of  terror,  of  self-reproach,  of  superstitious  prayers, 
and  cries,  which  are  not  repentance.  And  to  some  cowards,  too, 
the  days  have  seemed  hut  as  a moment ; for  they  have  been 
drunk  day  and  night. 

Strange  and  hideous,  yet  true. 

It  has  now  become  a mere  common-place,  the  strange  power 
which  great  crises,  pestilences,  famines,  revolutions,  invasions, 
have  to  call  out  in  their  highest  power,  for  evil  and  for  good 
alike,  the  passions  and  virtues  of  man ; how,  during  their  stay, 
the  most  desperate  recklessness,  the  most  ferocious  crime,  side  by 
side  with  the  most  heroic  and  unexpected  virtue,  are  followed 
generally  by  a collapse  and  a moral  death,  alike  of  virtue  and  of 
vice.  We  should  explain  this  now-a-days,  and  not  ill,  by  saying 
that  these  crises  put  the  human  mind  into  a state  of  exaltation  : 
hut  the  truest  explanation,  after  all,  lies  in  the  old  Bible  belief, 
that  in  these  times  there  goes  abroad  the  unquenchable  fire  of 
God,  literally  kindling  up  all  men’s  hearts  to  the  highest  activity, 
and  showing,  by  the  light  of  their  own  strange  deeds,  the  inmost 
recesses  of  their  spirits,  till  those  spirits  burn  down  again,  self- 
consumed,  while  the  chaff  and  stubble  are  left  as  ashes,  not 
valueless  after  all,  as  manure  for  some  future  crop ; and  the  pure 
gold,  if  gold  there  be,  alone  remains  behind. 

Even  so  it  was  in  Aberalva  during  that  fearful  week.  The 
drunkards  drank  more ; the  swearers  swore  more  than  ever ; the 
unjust  shopkeeper  clutched  more  greedily  than  ever  at  the  last 
few  scraps  of  mean  gain  which  remained  for  him  this  side  the 
grave ; the  selfish  wrapped  themselves  up  more  brutally  than 
ever  in  selfishness ; the  shameless  women  mingled  desperate 
debauchery  with  fits  of  frantic  superstition ; and  all  base  souls 
cried  out  together,  “ Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die!m 

But  many  a brave  man  and  many  a weary  woman  possessed 
their  souls  in  patience,  and  worked  on,  and  found  that  as  their 
day  their  strength  should  be.  And  to  them  the  days  seemed 
short  indeed ; for  there  was  too  much  to  be  done  in  them  for  any 
note  of  time. 

Headley  and  Campbell,  Grace  and  old  Willis,  and  last,  but 
not  least,  Tom  Thurnall, — these  and  three  or  four  brave  women, 
organized  themselves  into  a right-gallant  and  well-disciplined 
band,  and  commenced  at  once  a visitation  from  house  to  house, 
saving  thereby,  doubtless,  many  a life : but  ere  eight-and-forty 
hours  were  passed,  the  house  visitation  languished.  It  was  as 
much  as  they  could  do  to  attend  to  the  acute  cases. 

And  little  Scoutbush  ? He  could  not  nurse,  nor  doctor  : but 
what  he  could,  he  did.  He  bought,  and  fetched  all  that  money 
could  procure.  He  galloped  over  to  the  justices,  and  obtained 
such  summary  powers  as  he  could ; and  then,  like  a true  Irish- 


baalzepur’s  banquet. 


303 


man,  exceeded  them  recklessly,  breaking  into  premises  right  and 
left,  in  an  utterly  burglarious  fashion ; he  organized  his  fatigue- 
party,  as  he  called  them,  of  scavengers,  and  paid  the  cowardly 
clods  five  shillings  a day  each  to  work  at  removing  all  removable 
nuisances ; he  walked  up  and  down  the  streets  for  hours,  giving 
the  sailors  cigars  from  his  own  case,  just  to  show  them  that  he 
was  not  afraid,  and  therefore  they  need  not  be  : and  if  it  was 
somewhat  his  fault  that  the  horse  was  stolen,  he  at  least  did  his 
best  after  the  event  to  shut  the  stable-door.  The  five  real  workers 
toiled  on,  meanwhile,  in  perfect  harmony  and  implicit  obedience 
to  the  all-knowing  Tom,  but  with  the  most  different  inward  feel- 
ings. Tour  of  them  seemed  to  forget  death  and  danger ; but  each 
remembered  them  in  his  own  fashion. 

Major  Campbell  longed  to  die,  and  courted  death.  Frank 
believed  that  he  should  die,  and  was  ready  for  death.  Grace 
longed  to  die,  but  knew  that  she  should  not  die  till  she  had  found 
Tom’s  belt,  and  was  content  to  wait.  Willis  was  of  opinion  that 
an  “old  man  must  die  some  day,  and  somehow, — as  good  one 
way  as  another and  all  his  concern  was  to  run  about  after  his 
maid,  seeing  that  she  did  not  tire  herself,  and  obeying  all  her 
orders  with  sailor-like  precision  and  cleverness. 

And  Tom'?  lie  just  thought  nothing  about  death  and  danger 
at  all.  Always  smiling,  always  cheerful,  always  busy,  yet  never 
in  a hurry,  he  went  up  and  down,  seemingly  ubiquitous.  Sleep 
he  got  when  he  could,  and  food  as  often  as  he  could ; into  the  sea 
he  leapt,  morning  and  night,  and  came  out  fresher  every  time ; 
the  only  person  in  the  town  who  seemed  to  grow  healthier,  and 
actually  happier,  as  the  work  went  on. 

“You  really  must  be  careful  of  yourself,”  said  Campbell,  at 
last.  “ You  carry  no  charmed  life.” 

“ My  dear  Sir,  I am  the  most  cautious  and  selfish  man  in  the 
town.  I am  living  by  rule ; I have  got — and  what  greater  pleasure  ? 
— a good  stand-up  fight  with  an  old  enemy ; and  be  sure  I shall 
keep  myself  in  condition  for  it.  I have  written  off  for  help  to  the 
Board  of  Health,  and  I shall  not  be  shoved  against  the  ropes  till 
the  Government  man  comes  down.” 

“ And  then  ? ” 

“ I shall  go  to  bed  and  sleep  for  a month.  Never  mind  ine; 
but  mind  yourself : and  mind  that  curate  ; he’s  a noble  brick ; — 
if  all  parsons  in  England  were  like  him,  I’d — What’s  here  now?” 

Miss  Heale  came  shrieking  down  the  street. 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Tliurnall ! Miss  Tardrew  ! Miss  Tardrew  !” 

“ Screaming  will  only  make  you  ill,  too,  Miss.  Where  is  Miss 
Tardrew  ?” 

“ In  the  surgery, — and  my  mother  ! ” 

“ I expected  this,”  said  Tom.  “ The  old  man  will  go  next.” 


304 


BAALZEBUB'S  BANQUET. 


Tie  went  into  the  surgery.  The  poor  girl  was  in  collapse 
already.  Mrs.  Heale  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  stricken.  The  old 
man  hanging  over  her,  brandy  bottle  in  hand. 

“ Put  away  that  trash  !”  cried  Tom ; “you’ve  had  too  much 
already.” 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall,  she’s  dying,  and  I shall  die  too  !” 

“ You  ! you  were  all  right  this  morning.” 

“ But  I shall  die  ; I know  I shall,  and  go  to  hell !” 

“You’ll  go  where  you  ought;  and  if  you  give  way  to  this 
miserable  cowardice,  you’ll  go  soon  enough.  Walk  out,  Sir  ! 
Make  yourself  of  some  use,  and  forget  your  fear  ! Leave  Mrs. 
Heale  to  me.” 

The  wretched  old  man  obeyed  him,  utterly  cowed,  and  went 
out : but  not  to  be  of  use : he  had  been  hopelessly  boozy  from 
the  first — half  to  fortify  his  body  against  infection,  half  to  fortify 
his  heart  against  conscience.  Tom  had  never  reproached  him  for 
his  share  in  the  public  folly.  Indeed,  Tom  had  never  reproached 
a single  soul.  Poor  wretches  who  had  insulted  him  had  sent  for 
him,  with  abject  shrieks.  “ Oh,  doctor,  doctor,  save  me  ! Oh, 
forgive  me  ! oh,  if  I’d  minded  what  you  said  ! Oh,  don’t  think 
of  what  I said  !”  And  Tom  had  answered  cheerfully,  “Tut-tut; 
never  mind  what  might  have  been ; let’s  feel  your  pulse.” 

But  though  Tom  did  not  reproach  Heale,  Heale  reproached 
himself.  He  had  just  conscience  enough  left  to  feel  the  whole 
weight  of  his  abused  responsibility,  exaggerated  and  defiled  by 
superstitious  horror ; and  maudlin  tipsy,  he  wandered  about  the 
street,  moaning  that  he  had  murdered  his  wife,  and  all  the  town, 
and  asking  pardon  of  every  one  he  met ; till  seeing  one  of  the 
meeting-houses  open,  he  staggered  in,  in  the  vain  hope  of  comfort 
which  he  knew  he  did  not  deserve. 

In  half-an-hour  Tom  was  down  the  street  again  to  Headley’s. 
“Where  is  Miss  Harvey?” 

“At  the  Beers’.” 

“ She  must  go  up  to  Heale’s  instantly.  The  mother  will  die. 
Those  cases  of  panic  seldom  recover.  And  Miss  Heale  may  very 
likely  follow  her.  She  has  shrieked  and  sobbed  herself  into  it, 
poor  fool ! and  Grace  must  go  to  her  at  once ; she  may  bring  her 
to  common  sense  and  courage,  and  that  is  the  only  chance.” 
Grace  went,  and  literally  talked  and  prayed  Miss  Heale  iuto 
life  again. 

“ You  are  an  angel,”  said  Tom  to  her  that  very  evening,  when 
he  found  the  girl  past  danger. 

“Mr.  Thurnall !”  said  Grace,  in  a tone  of  sad  and  most  mean- 
ing reproof. 

“ But  you  are  ! And  these  owls  are  not  worthy  of  you.” 

“ This  is  no  time  for  such  language,  Sir  ! After  all,  what  am 


baalzebub’s  banquet. 


305 


I doing  more  than  you?”  And  Grace  went  upstairs  again,  with 
a cold  hard  countenance  which  belied  utterly  the  heart  within. 

That  was  the  critical  night  of  all.  The  disease  seemed  to  have 
done  its  worst  in  the  likeliest  spots  : but  cases  of  panic  increased 
all  the  afternoon ; and  the  gross  number  was  greater  than  ever. 

Tom  did  not  delay  inquiring  into  the  cause : and  he  discovered 
it.  Headley,  coming  out  the  next  morning,  after  two  hours’ 
fitful  sleep,  met  him  at  the  gate  : his  usual  business-like  trot  was 
exchanged  for  a fierce  and  hurried  stamp.  When  he  saw  Frank, 
he  stopped  short,  and  burst  out  into  a story  which  was  hardly 
intelligible,  so  interlarded  was  it  with  oaths. 

“For  Heaven’s  sake  ! Thumall,  calm  yourself,  and  do  not 
swear  so  frightfully ; it  is  so  unlike  you  ! What  can  have  upset 
you  thus  ?” 

“ Why  should  I not  curse  and  swear  in  the  street,”  gasped  he, 
“ while  every  fellow  who  calls  himself  a preacher  is  allowed  to 
do  it  in  the  pulpit  with  impunity  ! Fine  him  five  shillings  for 
every  curse,  as  you  might  if  people  had  courage  and  common 
sense,  and  then  complain  of  me  ! I am  a fool,  I know,  though. 
But  I cannot  stand  it ! To  have  all  my  work  undone  by  a brutal 
ignorant  fanatic  ! — It  is  too  much  ! Here,  if  you  will  believe  it, 
are  those  preaching  fellows  getting  up  a revival,  or  some  such 
invention,  just  to  make  money  out  of  the  cholera  1 They  have 
got  down  a great  gun  from  the  county  town.  Twice  a-day  they 
are  preaching  at  them,  telling  them  that  it  is  all  God’s  wrath 
against  their  sins ; that  it  is  impious  to  interfere,  and  that  I am 
fighting  against  God,  and  the  end  of  the  world  is  coming,  and 
they  and  the  devil  only  know  what.  If  I meet  one  of  them,  I’ll 
wring  his  neck,  and  be  hanged  for  it ! Oh,  you  parsons  ! vou 
parsons  !”  and  Tom  ground  his  teeth  with  rage. 

“ Is  it  possible  ? How  did  you  find  this  out  ?” 

“ Mrs.  Heale  had  been  in,  listening  to  their  howling,  just 
before  she  was  taken.  Heale  went  in  when  I turned  him  out 
of  doors ; came  home  raving  mad,  and  is  all  but  blue  now.  Three 
cases  of  women  have  I had  this  morning,  all  frightened  into 
cholera,  by  their  own  confession,  by  last  night’s  tom-foolery. — 
Came  home  howling,  fainted,  and  were  taken  before  morning. 
One  is  dead,  the  other  two  will  die.  You  must  stop  it,  or  I 
shall  have  half-a-dozen  more  to-night ! Go  into  the  meeting,  and 
curse  the  cur  to  his  face  ! ” 

“ I cannot,”  cried  Frank,  with  a gesture  of  despair,  “ I cannot !” 

“Ah,  your  cloth  forbids  you,  I suppose,  to  enter  the  non 
conformist  opposition  shop.” 

“ You  are  unjust,  Thurnall ! What  are  such  rules  at  a moment 
like  this  ? I’d  break  them,  and  the  bishop  would  hold  me  guilt- 
less. But  I cannot  speak  to  these  people.  I have  no  eloquence 

* x 


306 


baalzebub’s  banquet. 

— no  readiness — they  do  not  trust  me — would  not  believe  me — 
God  help  me  !”  and  Frank  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
hurst  into  tears. 

“ Not  that,  for  Heaven’s  sake  !”  said  Tom,  “ or  we  shall  have 
you  blue  next,  my  good  fellow.  I’d  go  myself,  hut  they’d  not 
hear  me,  for  certain ; I am  no  Christian,  I suppose  : at  least,  I 
can’t  talk  their  slang  : — hut  I know  who  can  ! We’ll  send 
Campbell !” 

Frank  hailed  the  suggestion  with  rapture,  and  away  they  went : 
hut  they  had  an  hour’s  good  search  from  sufferer  to  sufferer  before 
they  found  the  Major. 

He  heard  them  quietly.  A severe  gloom  settled  over  his  face. 
“ I will  go/’  said  he. 

At  six  o’clock  that  evening,  the  meeting-house  was  filling  with 
terrified  women,  and  half-curious,  half-sneering,  men;  and  among 
them  the  tall  figure  of  Major  Campbell,  in  his  undress  uniform 
(which  he  had  put  on,  wisely,  to  give  a certain  dignity  to  his 
mission),  stalked  in,  and  took  his  seat  in  the  back  benches. 

The  sermon  was  what  he  expected.  There  is  no  need  to 
transcribe  it.  Such  discourses  may  be  heard  often  enough  in 
churches  as  well  as  chapels.  The  preacher’s  object  seemed  to  be 
— for  some  purpose  or  other  which  we  have  no  right  to  judge — 
to  excite  in  his  hearers  the  utmost  intensity  of  selfish  fear,  by 
language  which  certainly,  as  Tom  had  said,  came  under  the  law 
against  profane  cursing  and  swearing.  He  described  the  next 
world  in  language  which  seemed  a strange  jumble  of  Yirgil’s 
iEneid,  the  Koran,  the  dreams  of  those  rabbis  who  crucified  our 
Lord,  and  of  those  medieval  inquisitors  who  tried  to  convert 
sinners  (and  on  their  own  ground,  neither  illogically  nor  over- 
harshly)  by  making  this  world  for  a few  hours  as  like  as  pos- 
sible to  what,  so  they  held,  God  was  going  to  make  the  world  to 
come  for  ever. 

At  last  he  stopped  suddenly,  when  he  saw  that  the  animal 
excitement  was  at  the  very  highest ; and  called  on  all  who  felt 
4 4 convinced  ” to  come  forward  and  confess  their  sins. 

In  another  minute  there  would  have  been  (as  there  have  been 
ere  now)  four  or  five  young  girls  raving  and  tossing  upon  the 
floor,  in  mad  terror  and  excitement ; or,  possibly,  half  the  con- 
gregation might  have  rushed  out  (as  a congregation  has  rushed 
out  ere  now)  headed  by  the  preacher  himself,  and  ran  headlong 
down  to  the  quay  pool,  with  shrieks  and  shouts,  declaring  that 
they  had  cast  the  devil  out  of  Betsey  Pennington,  and  were 
hunting  him  into  the  sea  : but  Campbell  saw  that  the  madness 
must  be  stopped  at  once ; and  rising,  he  thundered,  in  a voice 
which  brought  all  to  their  senses  in  a moment — 

44  Stop  ! I,  too,  have  a sermon  to  preach  to  you ; I trust  I am 


BAALZEBUB S BANQUET. 


307 


a Christian  man,  and  that  not  of  last  year’s  making,  Dr  the  year 
before.  Follow  me  outside,  if  you  be  rational  beings,  and  let  me 
tell  you  the  truth — God’s  truth  ! Men  ! ” he  said,  with  an  em- 
phasis on  the  word,  “you,  at  least,  will  give  me  a fair  hearing, 
and  you  too,  modest  married  women  ! Leave  that  fellow  with 
the  shameless  hussies  who  like  to  go  into  fits  at  his  feet.” 

The  appeal  was  not  in  vain.  The  soberer  majority  followed 
him  out ; the  insane  minority  soon  followed,  in  the  mere  hope  of 
fresh  excitement ; while  the  preacher  was  fain  to  come  also,  to 
guard  his  flock  from  the  wolf.  Campbell  sprang  upon  a large 
block  of  stone,  and  taking  off  his  cap,  opened  his  mouth,  and 
spake  unto  them. 

* * * * * 

Leaders  will  doubtless  desire  to  hear  what  Major  Campbell 
said  : but  they  will  be  disappointed ; and  perhaps  it  is  better  for 
them  that  they  should  be.  Let  each  of  them,  if  they  think  it 
worth  while,  write  for  themselves  a discourse  fitting  for  a Christian 
man,  who  loved  and  honoured  his  Eible  too  much  to  find  in  a 
few  scattered  texts,  all  misinterpreted,  and  some  mistranslated, 
excuses  for  denying  fact,  reason,  common  justice,  the  voice  of 
God  in  his  own  moral  sense,  and  the  whole  remainder  of  the 
Bible  from  beginning  to  end. 

Whatsoever  words  he  spoke  they  came  home  to  those  wild 
hearts  with  power.  .And  when  he  paused,  and  looked  intently 
into  the  faces  of  his  auditory,  to  see  what  effect  he  was  producing, 
a murmur  of  assent  and  admiration  rose  from  the  crowd,  which 
had  now  swelled  to  half  the  population  of  the  town.  And  no 
wonder  ; no  wonder  that,  as  the  men  were  enchained  by  the 
matter,  so  were  the  women  by  the  manner.  The  grand  head, 
like  a grey  granite  peak  against  the  clear  blue  sky ; the  tall 
figure,  with  all  its  martial  stateliness  and  ease ; the  gesture  of  his 
; long  arm,  so  graceful,  and  yet  so  self-restrained  ; the  tones  of  his 
voice  which  poured  from  beneath  that  proud  moustache,  now 
tender  as  a girl’s,  now  ringing  like  a trumpet  over  roof  and  sea. 
There  were  old  men  there,  old  beyond  the  years  of  man,  who 
said  they  had  never  seen  nor  heard  the  like  : but  it  must  be  like 
what  their  fathers  had  told  them  of,  when  John  Wesley,  on  the 
cliffs  of  St.  Ives,  out-thundered  the  thunder  of  the  gale.  To 
Grace  he  seemed  one  of  the  old  Scotch  Covenanters  of  whom  she 
had  read,  risen  from  the  dead  to  preach  there  from  his  rock 
beneath  the  great  temple  of  God’s  air,  a wider  and  a juster  creed 
than  theirs.  Frank  drew  Thurnall’s  arm  through  his,  and 
whispered,  “I  shall  thank  you  for  this  to  my  dying  day but 
Thurnall  held  down  his  head.  He  seemed  deeply  moved.  At 
last,  half  to  himself, — 

x 2 


308 


BAALZEBUBS  BANQUET. 


“ Humph ! I believe  that  between  this  man  and  that  girl, 
you  will  make  a Qhristian  even  of  me  some  day  ! ” 

But  the  lull  was  only  for  a moment.  For  Major  Campbell, 
looking  round,  discerned  among  the  crowd  the  preacher,  whisper- 
ing and  scowling  amid  a knot  of  women ; and  a sudden  fit  of 
righteous  wrath  came  over  him. 

“ Stand  out  there,  Sir,  you  Preacher,  and  look  me  in  the  face, 
if  you  can  ! ” thundered  he.  “We  are  here  on  common  ground 
as  free  men,  beneath  God’s  heaven  and  God’s  eye.  Stand  out, 
Sir  ! and  answer  me  if  you  can  ; or  be  for  ever  silent ! ” 

Half  in  unconscious  obedience  to  the  soldier-like  word  of 
command,  half  in  jealous  rage,  the  preacher  stepped  forward, 
gasping  for  breath, — 

“ Don’t  listen  to  him  ! He  is  a messenger  of  Satan,  sent  to 
damn  you — a lying  prophet ! Let  the  Lord  judge  between  me 
and  him  ! Stop  your  ears — a messenger  of  Satan — a Jesuit  in 
disguise  ! ” 

“ You  lie,  and  you  know  that  you  lie  ! ” answered  Campbell, 
twirling  slowly  his  long  moustache,  as  he  always  did  when 
choking  down  indignation.  “ But  you  have  called  on  the  Lord 
to  judge ; so  do  I.  Listen  to  me,  Sir  ! Dare  you,  in  the 
presence  of  God,  answer  for  the  words  which  you  have  spoken 
this  day]” 

A strange  smile  came  over  the  preacher’s  face. 

“ I read  my  title  clear,  Sir,  to  mansions  in  the  skies.  Well  for 
you  if  you  could  do  the  same.” 

Was  it  only  the  setting  sun,  or  was  it  some  inner  light  from 
the  depths  of  that  great  spirit,  which  shone  out  in  all  his  coun- 
tenance, and  filled  his  eyes  with  awful  inspiration,  as  he  spoke, 
in  a voice  calm  and  sweet,  sad  and  regretful,  and  yet  terrible 
from  the  slow  distinctness  of  every  vowel  and  consonant  ] 

“ Mansions  in  the  skies'?  You  need  not  wait  till  then,  Sir, 
for  the  presence  of  God.  How,  here,  you  and  I are  before  God’s 
judgment-seat.  How,  here,  I call  on  you  to  answer  to  Him  for 
the  innocent  lives  which  you  have  endangered  and  destroyed,  for 
the  innocent  souls  to  whom  you  have  slandered  their  heavenly 
Father  by  your  devil’s  doctrines  this  day ! You  have  said  it. 
Let  the  Lord  judge  between  you  and  me.  He  knows  best  how 
to  make  His  judgment  manifest.” 

He  bowed  his  head  awhile,  as  if  overcome  by  the  awful  words 
which  he  had  uttered,  almost  in  spite  of  himself,  and  then 
stepped  slowly  down  from  the  stone,  and  passed  through  the 
crowd,  which  reverently  made  way  for  him ; while  many  voices 
cried,  “ Thank  you,  Sir  ! Thank  you  ! ” and  old  Captain  Willis, 
stepping  forward,  held  out  his  hand  to  him,  a quiet  pride  in  his 
grey  eye. 


baalzebub’s  banquet.  309 

“ You  will  not  refuse  an  old  fighting  man’s  thanks,  Sir  ? This 
has  been  like  Elijah’s  day  with  Baal’s  priests  on  Carmel.” 

Campbell  shook  his  hand  in  silence  : but  turned  suddenly,  for 
another  and  a coarser  voice  caught  his  ear.  It  was  Jones,  the 
Lieutenant’s. 

“ And  now,  my  lads,  take  the  Methodist  Parson,  neck  and 
heels,  and  heave  him  into  the  quay  pool,  to  think  over  his 
summons  !” 

Campbell  went  back  instantly.  “Ho,  my  dear  Sir,  let  me 
entreat’ you  for  my  sake.  What  has  passed  has  been  too  terrible 
to  me  already ; if  it  has  done  any  good,  do  not  let  us  break  it  by 
spoiling  the  law.” 

“ I believe  you’re  right,  Sir  : but  my  blood  is  up,  and  no 
wonder.  Why,  where  is  the  preacher  ] ” 

He  had  stood  quite  still  for  several  minutes  after  Campbell’s 
adjuration.  He  had,  often,  perhaps,  himself  hurled  forth  such 
words  in  the  excitement  of  preaching  ; but  never  before  had  he 
heard  them  pronounced  in  spirit  and  in  truth.  And  as  he  stood, 
Thurnall,  who  had  his  doctor’s  eye  on  him,  saw  him  turn  paler 
and  more  pale.  Suddenly  he  clenched  his  teeth,  and  stooped 
slightly  forwards  for  a moment,  drawing  his  breath.  Thurnall 
walked  quickly  and  steadily  up  to  him. 

Gentleman  Jan  and  two  other  riotous  fellows  had  already  laid 
hold  of  him,  more  with  the  intention  of  frightening,  than  of 
really  ducking  him. 

“ Don’t ! don’t ! ” cried  he,  looking  round  with  eyes  wild — 
but  not  with  terror. 

“ Hands  off,  my  good  lads,”  said  Tom  quietly.  “ This  is  my 
business  now,  not  yours,  I can  tell  you.” 

And  passing  the  preacher’s  arm  through  his  own,  with  a 
serious  face,  Tom  led  him  off  into  the  house  at  the  back  of  the 
chapel. 

In  two  hours  more  he  was  blue;  in  four  he  was  a corpse. 
The  judgment,  as  usual,  had  needed  no  miracle  to  enforce  it. 

Tom  went  to  Campbell  that  night,  and  apprised  him  of  the 
fact.  “ Those  words  of  yours  went  through  him,  Sir,  like  a 
Minie  bullet.  I was  afraid  of  what  would  happen  when  I heard 
them.” 

“ So  was  I,  the  moment  after  they  were  spoken.  But,  Sir,  I 
felt  a power  upon  me, — you  may  think  it  a fancy, — that  there 
was  no  resisting.” 

“ I dare  impute  no  fancies,  when  I hear  such  truth  and  reason 
as  you  spoke  upon  that  stone,  Sir.” 

“ Then  you  do  not  blame  me  1 ” asked  Campbell,  with  a sub- 
dued, almost  deprecatory  voice,  such  as  Thurnall  had  never  heard 
in  him  before. 


310 


baalzebub’s  banquet. 

“ The  man  deserved  to  die,  and  he  died,  Sir.  It  is  well  that 
there  are  some  means  left  on  earth  of  punishing  offenders  whom 
the  law  cannot  touch.” 

“ It  is  an  awful  responsibility.” 

“ Hot  more  awful  than  killing  a man  in  battle,  which  we  both 
have  done,  Sir,  and  yet  have  felt  no  sting  of  conscience.” 

“ An  awful  responsibility  still.  Yet  what  else  is  life  made  up 
of,  from  morn  to  night,  but  of  deeds  which  may  earn  heaven  or 
hell  ? . . . "Well,  as  he  did  to  others,  so  was  it  done  to  him. 
God  forgive  him  ! At  least,  our  cause  will  be  soon  tried  and 
judged  : there  is  little  fear  of  my  not  meeting  him  again — soon 
enough.”  And  Campbell,  with  a sad  smile,  lay  back  in  his  chair 
and  was  silent. 

“ My  dear  Sir,”  said  Tom,  “ allow  me  to  remind  you,  after  this 
excitement  comes  a collapse ; and  that  is  not  to  be  trifled  with 
just  now.  Medicine  I dare  not  give  you.  Pood  I must.” 
Campbell  shook  his  head. 

“ You  must  go  now,  my  dear  fellow.  It  is  now  half-past  ten, 
and  I will  be  at  Pennington’s  at  one  o’clock,  to  see  how  he  goes 
on ; so  you  need  not  go  there.  And,  meanwhile,  I must  take  a 
little  medicine.” 

“Major,  you  are  not  going  to  doctor  yourself ?”  cried 

Tom. 

“ There  is  a certain  medicine  called  prayer,  Mr.  Thurnall — an 
old  specific  for  the  heart-ache,  as  you  will  find  one  day — which 
I have  been  neglecting  much  of  late,  and  which  I must  return 
to  in  earnest  before  midnight.  Good-bye,  God  bless  and  keep 
you  ! ” And  the  Major  retired  to  his  bedroom,  and  did  not  stir 
off  his  knees  for  two  full  hours.  After  which  he  went  to  Pen- 
nington’s, and  thence  somewhere  else ; and  Tom  met  him  at  four 
o’clock  that  morning  musing  amid  unspeakable  horrors,  quiet, 
genial,  almost  cheerful. 

“ You  are  a man,”  said  Tom  to  himself;  “ and  I fancy  at  times 
something  more  than  a man ; more  than  me  at  least.” 

Tom  was  right  in  his  fear  that  after  excitement  would  come 
collapse ; but  wrong  as  to  the  person  to  whom  it  would  come. 
Wrhen  he  arrived  at  the  surgery  door,  Headley  stood  waiting  for 
him. 

“ Anything  fresh  ? Have  you  seen  the  Heales  ? ” 

“ I have  been  praying  with  them.  Don’t  be  frightened.  I 
am  not  likely  to  forget  the  lesson  of  this  afternoon.” 

“Then  go  to  bed.  It  is  full  twelve  o’clock.” 

“ Hot  yet,  I fear.  I want  you  to  see  old  Willis.  All  is  not 
right.” 

“ Ah ! I thought  the  poor  dear  old  man  would  killjhimself. 
He  has  been  working  too  hard,  and  presuming  on  his  sailor’s 


BAALZEBUBS  BANQUET.  311 

power  of  tumbling  in  and  taking  a dog’s  nap  whenever  lie 
chose.” 

“ I have  warned  him  again  and  again  : but  he  was  working 
so  magnificently,  that  one  had  hardly  heart  to  stop  him.  And 
beside,  nothing  would  part  him  from  his  maid.” 

“ I don’t  wonder  at  that : ” quoth  Tom  to  himself.  “ Is  she 
with  him  ? ” 

“ Ho  : he  found  himself  ill ; slipped  home  on  some  pretence ; 
and  will  not  hear  of  our  telling  her.” 

“ JSToble  old  fellow  ! Caring  for  every  one  but  himself  to  the 
Last.”  And  they  went  in. 

It  was  one  of  those  rare  cases,  fatal,  yet  merciful  withal,  in 
which  the  poison  seems  to  seize  the  very  centre  of  the  life,  and 
to  preclude  the  chance  of  lingering  torture,  by  one  deadening 
blow. 

The  old  man  lay  paralysed,  cold,  pulseless,  but  quite  collected 
and  cheerful.  Tom  looked,  inquired,  shook  his  head,  and  called 
for  a hot  bath  of  salt  and  water. 

“ Warmth  we  must  have,  somehow.  Anything  to  keep  the 
fire  alight.” 

“Why  so,  Sir?”  asked  the  old  man.  “The  fire’s  been 
flickering  down  this  many  a year.  Why  not  let  it  go  out 
quietly,  at  three-score  years  and  ten?  You’re  sure  my  maid 
don’t  know  ? ” 

They  put  him  into  his  bath,  and  he  revived  a little. 

“ Ho ; I am  not  going  to  get  well ; so  don’t  you  waste  your 
time  on  me,  Sirs  ! I’m  taken  while  doing  my  duty,  as  I hoped 
to  be.  And  I’ve  lived  to  see  my  maid  do  hers,  as  I knew  she 
would,  when  the  Lord  called  on  her.  I have, — but  don’t  tell 
her,  she’s  well  employed,  and  has  sorrows  enough  already,  some 
that  you’ll  know  of  some  day — ” 

“You  must  not  talk,”  quoth  Tom,  who  guessed  his  meaning, 
and  wished  to  avoid  the  subject. 

“ Yes,  but  I must,  Sir.  I’ve  no  time  to  lose.  If  you’d  but 
go  and  see  after  those  poor  Heales,  and  come  again.  I’d  like  to 
have  one  word  with  Mr.  Headley  ; and  my  time  runs  short.” 

“A  hundred,  if  you  will,”  said  Frank. 

“ And  now,  Sir,”  when  they  were  alone,  “ only  one  thing,  if 
you’ll  excuse  an  old  sailor,”  and  Willis  tried  vainly  to  make  his 
usual  salutation  ; but  the  cramped  hand  refused  to  obey, — “and 
a dying  one  too.” 

“ What  is  it  ? ” 

“ Only  don’t  be  hard  on  the  people,  Sir ; the  people  here. 
They’re  good-hearted  souls,  with  all  their  sins,  if  you’ll  only 
take  them  as  you  find  them,  and  consider  that  they’ve  had  no 
chance.” 


312 


BAALZEB  UB’S  BANQUET. 


“Willis,  Willis,  don’t  talk  of  that  ! I shall  be  a wiser  man 
henceforth,  I trust.  At  least  I shall  not  trouble  Aberalva 
long.” 

“ Oh,  Sir,  don’t  talk  so;  and  you  just  getting  a hold  of  them  ! ” 

“ i r 

“ Yes,  you,  Sir.  They’ve  found  you  out  at  last,  thank  God. 
I always  knew  what  you  were,  and  said  it.  They’ve  found  you 
out  in  the  last  week ; and  there’s  not  a man  in  the  town  but 
what  would  die  for  you,  I believe.” 

This  announcement  staggered  Trank.  Some  men  it  would 
have  only  hardened  in  their  pedantry,  and  have  emboldened 
them  to  say  : “ Ah  ! then  these  men  see  that  a High  Church- 
man can  work  like  any  one  else,  when  there  is  a practical 
sacrifice  to  be  made.  How  I have  a standing  ground  which 
no  one  can  dispute,  from  which  to  go  on,  and  enforce  my  idea 
of  what  he  ought  to  be.” 

But,  rightly  or  wrongly,  no  such  thought  crossed  Trank’s 
mind.  He  was  just  as  good  a Churchman  as  ever — why  not  ? 
Just  as  fond  of  his  own  ideal  of  what  a parish  and  a Church 
Service  ought  to  be — why  not1?  But  the  only  thought  which 
did  rise  in  his  mind  was  one  of  utter  self-abasement. 

“ Oh,  how  blind  I have  been  ! How  I have  wasted  my  time 
in  laying  down  the  law  to  these  people ; fancying  myself  in- 
fallible, as  if  God  were  not  as  near  to  them  as  He  is  to  me 
— certainly  nearer  than  to  any  book  on  my  shelves — offending 
their  little  prejudices,  little  superstitions,  in  my  own  cruel 
self-conceit  and  self-will ! And  now,  the  first  time  that  I 
forget  my  own  rules ; the  first  time  that  I forget  almost  that 
I am  a priest,  even  a Christian  at  all ! that  moment  they 
acknowledge  me  as  a priest,  as  a Christian.  The  moment  I 
meet  them  upon  the  commonest  human  ground,  helping  them 
as  one  heathen  would  help  another,  simply  because  he  was  his 
own  flesh  and  blood,  that  moment  they  soften  to  me,  and  show 
me  how  much  I might  have  done  with  them  twelve  months 
ago,  had  I had  but  common  sense  ! ” 

He  knelt  down  and  prayed  by  the  old  man,  for  him  and  for 
himself. 

“Would  it  be  troubling  you,  Sir?”  said  the, old  man  at  last. 
“ But  I’d  like  to  take  the  Sacrament  before  I go.” 

“ Of  course.  Whom  shall  I ask  in  ? ” 

The  old  man  paused  awhile. 

I fear  it’s  selfish : but  it  seems  to  me — I would  not  ask  it, 
but  that  I know  I’m  going.  I should  like  to  take  it  with  my 
maid,  once  more  before  I die.” 

“ I’ll  go  for  her,”  said  Trank,  u the  moment  Thurnall  comes 
back  to  watch  you.” 


baalzebub’s  banquet.  313 

“What  need  to  go  yourself,  Sir]  Old  Sarah  will  go,  and 
willing.” 

Thurnall  came  in  at  that  moment. 

“I  am  going  to  fetch  Miss  Harvey.  Where  is  she,  Captain  ] n 

“ At  Janey  Headon’s,  along  with  her  two  poor  children.” 

“ Stay,”  said  Tom,  “ that’s  a bad  quarter,  just  at  the  fish-houso 
back.  Have  some  brandy  before  you  start  ] ” 

“ FTo  ! no  Dutch  courage  ! ” and  Frank  was  gone.  He  had  a 
word  to  say  to  Grace  Harvey,  and  it  must  be  said  at  once. 

He  turned  down  the  silent  street,  and  turned  up  over  stone 
stairs,  through  quaint  stone  galleries  and  balconies,  such  as  are 
often  huddled  together  on  the  cliff  sides  in  fishing  towns  ; into 
a stifling  cottage,  the  door  of  which  had  been  set  wide  open,  in 
the  vain  hope  of  fresh  air.  A woman  met  him,  and  clasped  both 
his  hands,  with  tears  of  joy. 

“ They’re  mending,  Sir ! They’re  mending,  else  I’d  have  sent 
to  tell  you.  I never  looked  for  you  so  late.” 

There  was  a gentle  voice  in  the  next  room.  It  was  Grace’s. 

“ Ah,  she’s  praying  by  them  now.  She’m  giving  them  all 
their  medicines  ail  along  ! Whatever  I should  have  done  with- 
out her ! — and  in  and  out  all  day  long,  too ; till  one  fancies  at 
whiles  the  Lord  must  have  changed  her  into  five  or  six  at  once, 
to  be  everywhere  to  the  same  minute.” 

Frank  went  in,  and  listened  to  her  prayer.  Her  face  was  as 
pale  and  calm  as  the  pale,  calm  faces  of  the  two  worn-out  babes, 
whose  heads  lay  on  the  pillow  close  to  hers : but  her  eyes  were 
lit  up  with  an  intense  glory,  which  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with 
love  and  light. 

Frank  listened  : but  would  not  break  the  spell. 

At  last  she  rose,  looked  round,  and  blushed. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  Sir,  for  taking  the  liberty.  If  I had 
known  that  you  were  about,  I would  have  sent : but  hearing 
that  you  were  gone  home,  I thought  you  would  not  be  offended, 
if  I gave  thanks  for  them  myself.  They  are  my  own,  Sir,  as  it 
were — ” 

“ Gh,  Miss  Harvey,  do  not  talk  so  ! While  you  can  pray  as 
you  were  praying  then,  he  who  would  silence  you  might  be 
silencing  unawares  the  Lord  himself ! ” 

She  made  no  answer,  though  the  change  in  Frank’s  tone 
moved  her ; and  when  he  told  her  his  errand,  that  thought  also 
passed  from  her  mind. 

At  last,  “ Happy,  happy  man  ! ” she  said  calmly ; and  putting 
on  her  bonnet,  followed  Frank  out  of  the  house. 

“ Miss  Harvey,”  said  Frank,  as  they  hurried  up  the  street,  “ 1 
must  say  one  word  to  you,  before  we  take  that  sacrament 
together.” 


314 


BAALZEBUB'S  BANQUET. 


“ Sir  h ” 

“ It  is  well  to  confess  all  sins  before  the  Eucharist,  and  I will 
confess  mine.  I have  been  unjust  to  you.  I know  that  you 
hate  to  be  praised ; so  I will  not  tell  you  what  has  altered  my 
opinion.  Eut  Heaven  forbid  that  I should  ever  do  so  base  a 
thing,  as  to  take  the  school  away  from  one  who  is  far  more  fit  to 
rule  in  it  than  ever  I shall  be  ! ” 

Grace  burst  into  tears. 

“ Thank  God  ! And  I thank  you,  Sir  ! Oh,  there’s  never  a 
storm  but  what  some  gleam  breaks  through  it ! And  now,  Sir, 
I would  not  have  told  you  it  before,  lest  you  should  fancy  that 
I changed  for  the  sake  of  gain — though,  perhaps,  that  is  pride, 
as  too  much  else  has  been.  Eut  you  will  never  hear  of  me  inside 
either  of  those  chapels  again.” 

“ What  has  altered  your  opinion  of  them,  then  ? ” 

“ It  would  take  long  to  tell,  Sir  : but  what  happened  this 
morning  filled  the  cup.  I begin  to  think,  Sir,  that  their  God 
and  mine  are  not  the  same.  Though  why  should  I judge  them, 
who  worshipped  that  other  God  myself  till  no  such  long  time 
since ; and  never  knew,  poor  fool,  that  the  Lord’s  name  was 
Love  ? ” 

“ I have  found  out  that,  too,  in  these  last  days.  More  shame 
to  me  than  to  you  that  I did  not  know  it  before.” 

“ Well  for  us  both  that  we  do  know  it  now,  Sir.  Eor  if  we 
believed  Him  now,  Sir,  to  be  aught  but  perfect  Love,  how  could 
we  look  round  here  to-night,  and  not  go  mad  ? ” 

“ Amen ! ” said  Erank. 

And  now  had  the  pestilence,  of  all  things  on  earth,  revealed 
to  those  two  noble  souls  that  God  is  Love  i 

Let  the  reader,  if  he  have  supplied  Campbell’s  sermon,  answer 
the  question  for  himself. 

They  went  in,  and  upstairs  to  Willis. 

Grace  bent  over  the  old  man,  tenderly,  but  with  no  sign  of 
sorrow.  Dry-eyed,  she  kissed  the  old  man’s  forehead  ; arranged 
his  bed-clothes,  woman-like,  before  she  knelt  down ; and  then 
the  three  received  the  Sacrament  together. 

“ Don’t  turn  me  out,”  whispered  Tom.  “ It’s  no  concern  of 
mine,  of  course  : but  you  are  all  good  creatures,  and,  somehow, 
I should  like  to  be  with  you.” 

So  Tom  stayed ; and  what  thoughts  passed  through  his  heart 
are  no  concern  of  ours. 

Frank  put  the  cup  to  the  old  man’s  lips;  the  lips  closed, 
sipped,  — then  opened the  jaw  had  fallen. 

“ Gone,”  said  Grace  quietly. 

Frank  paused,  awe-struck. 

“ Go  on,  Sir,”  said  she,  in  a low  voice. 


“ He  hears  it  all  more 


THE  BLACK  HOUND.  315 

clearly  than  he  ever  did  before.”  And  by  the  dead  man’s  side, 
Trank  finished  the  Communion  Service. 

Grace  rose  when  it  was  over,  kissed  the  calm  forehead,  and 
went  out  without  a word. 

“ Tom,”  said  Trank,  in  a whisper,  “ come  into  the  next  room 
with  me.” 

Tom  hardly  heard  the  tone  in  which  the  words  were  spoken, 
or  he  would  perhaps  have  answered  otherwise  than  he  did. 

“ My  father  takes  the  Communion,”  said  he,  half  to  himself. 
“ At  least,  it  is  a beautiful  old — ” 

Howsoever  the  sentence  would  have  been  finished,  Tom  stopped 
short — 

“ Hey? — What  does  that  mean  ?” 

“At  last?”  gasped  Trank,  gently  enough.  “Excuse  me!” 
He  was  bowed  almost  double,  crushing  Thurnall’s  arm  in  the 
fierce  gripe  of  pain. 

“ Pish  ! — Hang  it ! — Impossible  ! — There,  you  are  all  right 
now  !” 

“ Tor  the  time.  I can  understand  many  things  now.  Curious 
sensation  it  is,  though.  Can  you  conceive  a sword  put  in  on  one 
side  of  the  waist,  just  above  the  hip-bone,  and  drawn  through, 
handle  and  all,  till  it  passes  out  at  the  opposite  point  ? ” 

“ I have  felt  it  twice ; and  therefore  you  will  be  pleased  to 
hold  your  tongue  and  go  to  bed.  Have  you  had  any  warnings?” 

“Yes, — no, — that  is — this  morning  : but  I forgot.  Hevei 
mind  ! — What  matter  a hundred  years  hence  ? There  it  is  again ! 
— God  help  me  ! ” 

“ Humph  ! ” growled  Thurnall  to  himself.  “ I’d  sooner  have 
lost  a dozen  of  these  herring-hogs,  whom  nobody  misses,  and 
who  are  well  out  of  their  life-scrape  : but  the  parson,  just  as  he 
was  making  a man  ! ” 

There  is  no  use  in  complaints.  In  half  an  hour  Trank  is 
screaming  like  a woman,  though  he  has  bitten  his  tongue  half 
through  to  stop  his  screams. 


CHAPTEE  XYIII. 

THE  BLACK  HOUND. 

Pah  ! Let  us  escape  anywhere  for  a breath  of  fresh  air,  for 
even  the  scent  of  a clean  turf.  We  have  been  watching  saints 
and  martyrs — perhaps  not  long  enough  for  the  good  of  our  souls, 
but  surely  too  long  for  the  comfort  of  our  bodies.  Let  us  away 
up  the  valley,  where  we  shall  find,  if  not  indeed  a fresh  health- 
ful breeze  (for  the  drought  lasts  on),  at  least  a cool  refreshing 


316 


THE  BLACK  HOUND. 


down-draught  from  Carcarrow  Moor  before  the  sun  gets  up.  It 
is  just  half-past  four  o'clock,  on  a glorious  August  morning.  We 
shall  have  three  hours  at  least  before  the  heavens  become  one 
great  Dutch-oven  again. 

We  shall  have  good  company,  too,  in  our  walk  ; for  here  comes 
Campbell  fresh  from  his  morning's  swim,  swinging  up  the  silent 
street  toward  Frank  Headley's  lodging. 

He  stops,  and  tosses  a pebble  against  the  window-pane.  In 
a minute  or  two  Thurnall  opens  the  street-door  and  slips  out  to 
him. 

“ Ah,  Major  ! Overslept  myself  at  last ; that  sofa  is  wonder- 
fully comfortable.  Ho  time  to  go  down  and  bathe.  I’ll  get  my 
header  somewhere  up  the  stream." 

“ How  is  he  ? ” 

“ He  ? sleeping  like  a babe,  and  getting  well  as  fast  as  his 
soul  will  allow  his  body.  He  has  something  on  his  mind. 
Nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  though,  I will  warrant ; for  a purer, 
nobler  fellow  I never  met." 

“ When  can  we  move  him  h " 

“ Oh,  to-morrow,  if  he  will  agree.  You  may  all  depart  and 
leave  me  and  the  Government  man  to  make  out  the  returns  of 
killed  and  wounded.  We  shall  have  no  more  cholera.  Eight 
days  without  a new  case.  We  shall  do  now.  I’m  glad  you  are 
coming  up  with  us." 

“ I will  just  see  the  hounds  throw  off,  and  then  go  back  and 
get  Headley’s  breakfast." 

“ Ho,  no  ! you  mustn't,  Sir  : you  want  a day's  play." 

“Hot  half  as  much  as  you.  And  I am  in  no  hunting  mood 
just  now.  Do  you  take  your  fill  of  the  woods  and  the  streams, 
and  let  me  see  our  patient.  I suppose  you  will  be  back  by 
noon  1 " 

“Certainly."  And  the  two  swing  up  the  street,  and  out  of 
the  town,  along  the  vale  toward  Treeboze. 

For  Trebooze  of  Trebooze  has  invited  them,  and  Lord  Scout- 
bush,  and  certain  others,  to  come  out  otter-hunting ; and  otter- 
hunting they  will  go. 

Trebooze  has  been  sorely  exercised,  during  the  last  fortnight, 
between  fear  of  the  cholera  and  desire  of  calling  upon  Lord 
Scoutbush — “ as  I ought  to  do,  of  course,  as  one  of  the  gentry 
round  ; he's  a Whig,  of  course,  and  no  mo/e  to  me  than  anybody 
else;  but  one  don't  like  to  let  politics  interfere;"  by  which 
Trebooze  glosses  over  to  himself  and  friends  the  deep  flunkey- 
dom  with  which  he  lusteth  after  a live  lord's  acquaintance,  and 
one  especially  in  whom  he  hopes  to  find  even  such  a one  as  him- 
self. . . . “ Good  fellow,  I hear  he  is,  too, — good  sportsman, 
smokes  like  a chimney,"  and  so  forth. 


THE  BLACK  HOUND. 


317 


So  at  last,  when  the  cholera  has  all  but  disappeared,  he  comes 
down  to  Penalva,  and  introduces  himself,  half  swaggering,  half 
servile ; begins  by  a string  of  apologies  for  not  having  called 
before, — “ Mrs.  Trebooze  so  afraid  of  infection,  you  see,  my  lord,” 
— which  is  a lie  : then  blunders  out  a few  fulsome  compliments 
to  Scoutbush’s  courage  in  staying  : then  takes  heart  at  a little 
joke  of  Scoutbush’s,  and  tries  the  free  and  easy  style ; fingers 
his  lordship’s  high-priced  Hudsons,  and  gives  a broad  hint  that 
he  would  like  to  smoke  one  on  the  spot ; which  hint  is  not  taken, 
any  more  than  the  bet  of  a “ pony  ” which  he  offers  five  minutes 
afterwards,  that  he  will  jump  his  Irish  mare  in  and  out  of 
Aberalva  pound  ; is  utterly  “ thrown  on  his  haunches,”  (as  he 
informs  his  friend  Mr.  Creed  afterwards,)  by  Scoutbush’s  praise 
of  Tom  Thurnall,  as  an  “ invaluable  man,  a treasure  in  such  an 
out-of-the-way  place,  and  really  better  company  than  ninety-nine 
men  out  of  a hundred ;”  recovers  himself  again  when  Scoutbush 
asks  after  his  otter-hounds,  of  which  he  has  heard  much  praise 
from  Tardrew  ; and  launches  out  once  more  into  sporting  con- 
versation of  that  graceful  and  lofty  stamp  which  may  be  perused 
and  perpended  in  the  pages  of  “ Handley  Cross,”  and  “Mr. 
Sponge’s  Sporting  Tour,”  books  painfully  true  to  that  uglier  and 
baser  side  of  sporting  life,  which  their  clever  author  has  chosen 
so  wilfully  to  portray. 

So,  at  least,  said  Scoutbush  to  himself,  when  his  visitor  had 
departed. 

“ He’s  just  like  a page  out  of  Sponge’s  Tour,  though  he’s  not 
half  as  good  a fellow  as  Sponge  himself ; for  Sponge  knew  he 
was  a snob,  and  lived  up  to  his  calling  honestly  : but  this  fellow 
wants  all  the  while  to  play  at  being  a gentleman ; and — Ugh  ! 
how  the  fellow  smelt  of  brandy,  and  worse  ! His  hand,  too, 
shook  as  if  he  had  the  palsy,  and  he  chattered  and  fidgetted 
like  a man  with  St.  Yitus’s  dance.” 

“ Did  he,  my  lord  ? ” quoth  Tom  Thurnall,  when  he  heard  the 
same,  in  a very  meaning  tone. 

And  Trebooze,  “ for  his  part,  couldn’t  make  out  that  lord — 
uncommonly  agreeable,  and  easy,  and  all  that : but  shoves  a 
fellow  off,  and  sets  him  down  somehow,  and  in  such  a * * * 
civil  way,  that  you  don’t  know  where  to  have  him.” 

However,  Trebooze  departed  in  high  spirits ; for  Lord  Scout- 
bush has  deigned  to  say  that  he  will  be  delighted  to  see  the 
otter-hounds  work  any  morning  that  Trebooze  likes,  and  any 
how — no  time  too  early  for  him.  “ He  will  bring  his  friend 
Major  Campbell  1 ” 

‘ By  all  means.” 

“ Expect  two  or  three  sporting  gentlemen  from  the  neigh- 
bourhood, too.  Begular  good  ones,  my  lord — though  they  are 


318 


THE  BLACK  HOUND. 


county  bucks — very  much  honoured  to  make  your  lordship’s 
acquaintance.’’ 

Scoutbush  expresses  himself  equally  honoured  by  making 
their  acquaintance,  in  a tone  of  bland  simplicity,  which  utterly 
puzzles  Trebooze,  who  goes  a step  further. 

“ Your  lordship  ’ll  honour  us  by  taking  pot  luck  afterwards. 
Can’t  show  you  French  cookery,  you  know,  and  your  souffleys 
and  glacys,  and  all  that.  Honest  saddle  o’  mutton,  and  the 
grounds  of  old  port. — My  father  laid  it  down,  and  I take  it  up, 
eh  ? ” And  Trebooze  gave  a wink  and  a nudge  of  his  elbow, 
meaning  to  be  witty. 

His  lordship  was  exceedingly  sorry ; it  was  the  most  unfor- 
tunate accident : but  he  had  the  most  particular  engagement 
that  very  afternoon,  and  must  return  early  from  the  otter-hunt, 
and  probably  sail  the  next  day  for  Wales.  “ But,”  says  the 
little  man,  who  knows  all  about  Trebooze’s  household,  “ I shall 
not  fail  to  do  myself  the  honour  of  calling  on  Mrs.  Trebooze,  and 
expressing  my  regret,”  &c. 

So  to  the  otter-hunt  is  Scoutbush  gone,  and  Campbell  and 
Thurnall  after  him ; for  Trebooze  has  said  to  himself,  “ Must 
ask  that  blackguard  of  a doctor — hang  him  ! I wish  he  were  an 
otter  himself ; but  if  he’s  so  thick  with  his  lordship,  it  won’t  do 
to  quarrel.”  For,  indeed,  Thurnall  might  tell  tales.  So  Tre- 
booze swallows  his  spite  and  shame, — as  do  many  folk  who  call 
themselves  his  betters,  when  they  have  to  deal  with  a great 
man’s  hanger-on, — and  sends  down  a note  to  Tom  : 

“Mr.  Trebooze  requests  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Thurnall’s  com- 
pany with  his  hounds  at  . . . .” 

And  Tom  accepts — why  not  ? and  chats  with  Campbell,  as  they 
go,  on  many  things ; and  among  other  things  on  this, — 

“ By  the  bye,”  said  he,  “ I got  an  hour’s  shore-work  yesterday 
afternoon,  and  refreshing  enough  it  was.  And  I got  a prize,  too. 
The  sucking  barnacle  which  you  asked  for : I was  certain  I should 
get  one  or  two,  if  I could  have  a look  at  the  pools  this  week. 
Jolly  little  dog  ! he  was  paddling  and  spinning  about  last  night, 
and  enjoying  himself,  ‘ere  age  with  creeping’ — What  is  it1? — 
‘ hath  clawed  him  in  his  clutch.’  That  fellow’s  destiny  is  not  a 
hopeful  analogy  for  you,  Sir,  who  believe  that  we  shall  rise  after 
we  die  into  some  higher  and  freer  state.” 

“Why  not?” 

“ Why,  which  is  better  off,  the  free  swimming  larva,  or  the 
perfect  cirrhipod,  rooted  for  ever  motionless  to  the  rock  ? ” 

“ Which  is  better  off,  the  roving  young  fellow  who  is  sow- 
ing his  wild  oats,  or  the  man  who  has  settled  down,  and 
become  a respectable  landowner  with  a good  house  over  his 
head?” 


THE  SLACK  HOUND. 


319 


“ And  begun  to  propagate  bis  species?  Well,  you  nave  me 
there,  Sir,  as  far  as  this  life  is  concerned ; but  you  will  confess 
that  the  barnacle’s  history  proves  that  all  crawling  grubs  don’t 
turn  into  butterflies.” 

“ I dare  say  the  barnacle  turns  into  what  is  best  for  him ; ab 
all  events,  what  he  deserves.  That  rule  of  yours  will  apply  to 
him,  to  whomsoever  it  will  not.” 

“ And  so  does  penance  for  the  sins  of  his  youth,  as  some  of  us 
are  to  do  in  the  next  world?” 

“ Perhaps  yes  ; perhaps  no  ; perhaps  neither.” 

“ Do  you  speak  of  us,  or  the  barnacle  ?” 

“ Of  both.” 

“ I am  glad  of  that ; for  on  the  popular  notion  of  our  being 
punished  a million  years  hence  for  what  we  did  when  we  were 
lads,  I never  could  see  anything  but  a misery  and  injustice  in 
our  having  come  into  the  world  at  all.” 

“ I can,”  said  the  Major  quietly. 

“ Of  course  I meant  nothing  rude : but  I had  to  buy  my 
experience,  and  paid  for  it  dearly  enough  in  folly.” 

“ So  h^d  I to  buy  mine.” 

“ Then  why  be  punished  over  and  above  ? Why  have  to  pay 
for  the  folly,  which  was  itself  only  the  necessary  price  of  experi- 
ence?” 

“ Por  being,  perhaps,  so  foolish  as  not  to  use  the  experience 
after  it  has  cost  you  so  dear.” 

“ And  will  punishment  cure  me  of  the  foolishness?” 

“ That  depends  on  yourself.  If  it  does,  it  must  needs  be  so 
much  the  better  for  you.  But  perhaps  you  will  not  be  punished, 
but  forgiven.” 

“ Let  off?  That  would  be  a very  bad  thing  for  me,  unless  I 
become  a very  different  man  from  what  I have  been  as  yet.  I am 
always  right  glad  now  to  get  a fall  whenever  I make  a stumble. 
I should  have  gone  to  sleep  in  my  tracks  long  ago  else,  as  one 
used  to  do  in  the  back  woods  on  a long  elk  hunt.” 

“ Perhaps  you  may  become  a very  different  man.” 

“ I should  be  sorry  for  that,  even  if  it  were  possible.” 

“ Why  ? Do  you  consider  yourself  perfect  ?” 

“ hTo  . . . But  somehow,  Thomas  Thurnall  is  an  old  friend 
of  mine,  the  first  I ever  had ; and  I should  be  sorry  to  lose  his 
company.” 

“ I don’t  think  you  need  fear  doing  so.  You  have  seen  an 
insect  go  through  strange  metamorphoses,  and  yet  remain  the 
same  individual ; why  should  not  you  and  I do  so  likewise  ? ” 
“Well?” 

“ Well — There  are  some  points  about  you,  I suppose,  which 
you  would  not  be  sorry  to  have  altered?” 


320 


THE  BLACK  ) OUND. 


“ A few,”  quoth  Tom,  laughing.  “ I do  not  consider  myseli 
quite  perfect  yet.” 

“What  if  those  points  were  not  really  any  part  of  your 
character,  hut  mere  excrescences  of  disease  : or  if  that  be  too 
degrading  a notion,  mere  scars  of  old  wounds,  and  of  the  wear 
and  tear  of  life ; and  what  if,  in  some  future  life,  all  those  dis- 
appeared, and  the  true  Mr.  Thomas  Thurnall,  pure  and  simple, 
were  alone  left  ?” 

“ It  is  a very  hopeful  notion.  Only,  my  dear  Sir,  one  ;s  quite 
self-conceited  enough  in  this  imperfect  state.  What  intolerable 
coxcombs  we  should  all  be  if  we  were  perfect,  and  could  sit 
admiring  ourselves  for  ever  and  ever !” 

“ But  what  if  that  self-conceit  and  self-dependence  were  the 
very  root  of  all  the  disease,  the  cause  of  all  the  scars,  the  very 
thing  which  will  have  to  be  got  rid  of,  before  our  true  character 
and  true  manhood  can  be  developed?” 

“ Yes,  I understand.  Faith  and  humility  ....  You  will  for- 
give me,  Major  Campbell.  I shall  learn  to  respect  those  virtues 
when  good  people  have  defined  them  a little  more  exactly,  and 
can  show  me  somewhat  more  clearly  in  what  faith  differs  from 
superstition,  and  humility  from  hypocrisy.” 

“ I do  not  think  any  man  will  ever  define  them  for  you.  But 
you  may  go  through  a course  of  experiences,  more  severe,  probably, 
than  pleasant,  which  may  enable  you  at  last  to  define  them  for 
yourself.” 

“ Have  you  defined  them  ?”  asked  Tom  bluntly,  glancing  round 
at  his  companion. 

“ Faith? — Yes,  I trust.  Humility  ? — Ho,  I fear.” 

“ I should  like  to  hear  your  definition  of  the  former,  at  least/1 
“ Did  I not  say  that  you  must  discover  it  for  yourself?” 

“ Yes.  Well.  When  the  lesson  comes,  if  it  does  come,  I sup- 
pose it  will  come  in  some  learnable  shape ; and  till  then,  I must 
shift  for  myself — and  if  self-dependence  be  a punishable  sin,  I 
shall,  at  all  events,  have  plenty  of  company  whithersoever  I go. 
There  is  Lord  Scoutbush  and  Trebooze  ! ” 

Why  did  not  Campbell  speak  his  mind  more  clearly  to  Thurnall  ? 
Because  he  knew  that  with  such  men  words  are  of  little  avail. 
The  disease  was  entrenched  too  strongly  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
man’s  being.  It  seemed  at  moments  as  if  all  his  strange  adven- 
tures and  hairbreadth  escapes  had  been  sent  to  do  him  harm,  and 
not  good ; to  pamper  and  harden  his  self-confidence,  not  to  crush 
it.  Therefore  Campbell  seldom  argued  with  him  : but  he  prayed 
for  him  often ; for  he  had  begun,  as  all  did  who  saw  much  of 
Tom  Thurnall,  to  admire  and  respect  him,  in  spite  of  all  his 
faults. 

And  now,  turning  through  a woodland  path,  they  descend 


THE  BLACK  HOUND. 


321 


toward  the  river,  till  they  can  hear  voices  below  them ; Scout- 
bush  laughing  quietly,  Trebooze  laying  down  the  law  at  the  top 
of  his  voice. 

“ How  noisy  the  fellow  is,  and  how  he  is  hopping  about  ! ” 
says  Campbell. 

“ Ho  wonder : he  has  been  soaking,  I hear,  for  the  last  fort- 
night, with  some  worthy  compeers,  by  way  of  keeping  off  cholera. 
I must  have  my  eye  on  him  to-day.” 

Scrambling  down  through  the  brushwood,  they  found  them- 
selves in  such  a scene  as  Creswick  alone  knows  how  to  paint : 
though  one  element  of  beauty,  which  Creswick  uses  full  well, 
was  wanting ; and  the  whole  place  was  seen,  not  by  slant  sun- 
rays,  gleaming  through  the  boughs,  and  dappling  all  the  pebbles 
with  a lacework  of  leaf  shadows,  but  in  the  uniform  and  sober 
grey  of  dawn. 

A broad  bed  of  shingle,  looking  just  now  more  like  an  ill- 
made  turnpike  road  than  the  bed  of  Alva  stream ; above  it, 
a long  shallow  pool,  which  showed  every  stone  through  the 
transparent  water ; on  the  right,  a craggy  bank,  bedded  with 
deep  wood  sedge  and  orange-tipped  king  ferns,  clustering  beneath 
sallow  and  maple  bushes  already  tinged  with  gold ; on  the  left, 
a long  bar  of  gravel,  covered  with  giant  “ butterbur  ” leaves ; 
in  and  out  of  which  the  hounds  are  brushing — beautiful  black- 
and-tan  dogs,  of  which  poor  Trebooze  may  be  pardonably  proud ; 
while  round  the  burleaf-bed  dances  a rough  white  Irish  terrier, 
seeming,  by  his  frantic  self-importance,  to  consider  himself  the 
master  of  the  hounds. 

Scoutbush  is  standing  with  Trebooze  beyond  the  bar,  upon 
a little  lawn  set  thick  with  alders.  Trebooze  is  fussing  and 
lidgetting  about,  wiping  his  forehead  perpetually ; telling  every- 
body to  get  out  of  the  way,  and  not  to  interfere ; then  catching 
hold  of  Scoutbush’ s button  to  chatter  in  his  face  ; then,  starting 
aside  to  put  some  part  of  his  dress  to  rights.  His  usual  lazy 
drawl  is  exchanged  for  foolish  excitement.  Two  or  three  more 
gentlemen,  tired  of  Trebooze’s  absurdities,  are  scrambling  over 
the  rocks  above,  in  search  of  spraints.  Old  Tardrew  waddles 
stooping  along  the  line  where  grass  and  shingle  meet,  his  bull- 
dog visage  bent  to  his  very  knees. 

“ Tardrew  out  hunting  1 ” says  Campbell.  “ Why,  it  is  but 
a week  since  his  daughter  was  buried  ! ” 

“ And  why  not  ? I like  him  better  for  it.  Would  he  bring 
her  back  again  by  throwing  away  a good  day’s  sport  ? Better 
turn  out,  as  he  has  done,  and  forget  his  feelings,  if  he  has 
any.” 

“He  has  feelings  enough,  don’t  doubt.  But  you  are  right. 
There  is  something  very  characteristic  in  the  way  in  which  the 
* Y 


322 


THE  BLACK  HOUND. 


English  countryman  never  shows  grief,  never  lets  it  interfere 
with  business,  even  with  pleasure.” 

“ Hillo  ! Mr.  Trebooze ! ” says  the  old  fellow,  looking  up. 
“ Here  it  is  ! ” 

“ Spraint  ? — Spraint  ? — Spraint  ? — Where  ? Eh — what'?”  cries 
Trebooze. 

“Ho  ; but  what’s  as  good  : here  on  this  alder  stump,  not  an 
hour  old.  I thought  they  beauties  starns  weren’t  flemishing 
for  nowt.” 

“ Here  ! Here  ! Here  ! Here  ! Musical,  musical ! Sweetlips  ! 
Get  out  of  the  way  ! ” — and  Trebooze  runs  down. 

Musical  examines,  throws  her  nose  into  the  air,  and  answers 
by  the  rich  bell-like  note  of  the  true  otter  hound  ; and  all  the 
woodlands  ring  as  the  pack  dashes  down  the  shingle  to  her  call. 

“ Over  ! 99  shouts  Tom.  “ Here’s  the  fresh  spraint  our  side  ! ” 

Through  the  water  splash  squire,  viscount,  steward,  and 
hounds,  to  the  horror  of  a shoal  of  par,  the  only  visible  tenants 
of  a pool,  which,  after  a shower  of  rain,  would  be  alive  with 
trout.  AY  here  those  trout  are  in  the  meanwhile  is  a mystery 
yet  unsolved. 

Over  dances  the  little  terrier,  yapping  furiously,  and  expending 
his  superfluous  energy  by  snapping  right  and  left  at  the  par. 

“Hark  to  Musical!  hark  to  Sweetlips!  Down  the  stream? 
— Ho  ! the  old  girl  has  it ; right  up  the  bank  ! ” 

“How  do,  Doctor?  How  do,  Major  Campbell?  Forward! 
— Forward ! — Forward ! 99  shouts  Trebooze,  glad  to  escape  a 
longer  parley,  as  with  his  spear  in  his  left  hand,  he  clutches 
at  the  overhanging  boughs  with  his  right,  and  swings  him- 
self up,  with  Peter,  the  huntsman,  after  him.  Tom  follows 
him ; and  why  ? 

Pecause  he  does  not  like  his  looks.  That  bull- eye  is  red, 
and  almost  bursting;  his  cheeks  are  flushed,  his  lips  blue,  his 
hand  shakes ; and  Tom’s  quick  eye  has  already  remarked,  from 
a distance,  over  and  above  his  new  fussiness,  a sudden  shudder, 
a quick  half-frightened  glance  behind  him ; and  perceived,  too, 
that  the  moment  Musical  gave  tongue,  he  put  the  spirit-flask  to 
his  mouth. 

Away  go  the  hounds  at  score  through  tangled  cover,  their 
merry  peal  ringing  from  brake  and  briar,  clashing  against  the 
rocks,  moaning  musically  away  through  distant  glens  aloft. 

Scoutbush  and  Tardrewr  “ take  down  ” the  river-bed,  followed 
by  Campbell.  It  is  in  his  way  home  ; and  though  the  Major 
has  stuck  many  a pig,  shot  many  a gaur,  rhinoceros,  and  elephant, 
he  disdains  not,  like  a true  sportsman,  the  less  dangerous  but 
more  scientific  excitement  of  an  otter -hunt. 

“ Hark  to  the  merry  merry  Christchurch  bells  ! She’s  up  by. 


THE  BLACK  HOUND. 


323 


this  time  ; — that  don’t  sound  like  a drag  now  ! ” cries  Tom, 
bursting  desperately,  with  elbow-guarded  visage,  through  the 
tangled  scrub.  “ What’s  the  matter,  Trebooze  ? Ho,  thanks  ! 
4 Modest  quenchers  ’ won’t  improve  the  wind  just  now.” 

For  Trebooze  has  halted,  panting  and  bathed  in  perspiration ; 
has  been  at  the  brandy  flask  again ; and  now  offers  Tom  a 
“ quencher,”  as  he  calls  it. 

“ As  you  like,”  says  Trebooze  sulkily,  having  meant  it  as 
a token  of  reconciliation,  and  pushes  on. 

They  are  now  upon  a little  open  meadow,  girdled  by  green 
walls  of  wood ; and  along  the  river-bank  the  hounds  are  fairly 
racing.  Tom  and  Peter  hold  on  ; Trebooze  slackens. 

“ Your  master  don’t  look  right  this  morning,  Peter.” 

Peter  lifts  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  to  signify  the  ha  fit  of 
drinking ; and  then  shakes  it  in  a melancholy  fashion,  to  signify 
that  the  said  habit  has  reached  a lamentable  and  desperate  point. 

Tom  looks  back.  Trebooze  has  pulled  up,  and  is  walking, 
wiping  still  at  his  face.  The  hounds  have  overrun  the  scent, 
and  are  back  again,  flemishing  about  the  plashed  fence  on 
the  river  brink. 

“ Over  ! over  ! over ! ” shouts  Peter,  tumbling  over  the  fence 
into  the  stream,  and  staggering  across. 

Trebooze  comes  up  to  it,  tries  to  scramble  over,  mutters  some- 
thing, and  sits  down  astride  of  a bough. 

“You  are  not  well,  Squire  ?” 

“ Well  as  ever  I was  in  my  life  ! only  a little  sick — have  been 
several  times  lately ; couldn’t  sleep  either — haven’t  slept  an  hour 
this  week. — Don’t  know  what  it  is.” 

“What  ducks  of  hounds  those  are!”  says  Tom,  trying,  for 
ulterior  purposes,  to  ingratiate  himself.  “ How  they  are  working 
there  all  by  themselves,  like  so  many  human  beings.  Perfect ! — ” 

“ Yes — don’t  want  us — may  as  well  sit  here  a minute.  Awfully 
hot,  eh  ? What  a splendid  creature  that  Miss  St.  Just  is  ! I say, 
Peter ! ” 

“Yes,  Sir,”  shouts  Peter,  from  the  other  side. 

“ Those  hounds  ain’t  right !”  with  an  oath. 

“Hot  right,  Sir?” 

“ Didn’t  I tell  you  ? — five  couple  and  a half — no,  five  couple 
— no,  six.  Hang  it ! I can’t  see,  I think  ! How  many  hounds 
did  I tell  you  to  bring  out?” 

“ Five  couple,  Sir.” 

“Then  * * * why  did  you  bring  out  that  other  ?” 

“Which  other?”  shouts  Peter,  while  Thurnall  eyes  Trebooze 
keenly. 

“ Why  that ! He’s  none  o’  mine  ! Hasty  black  cur,  how  did 
he  get  here  ?” 

y 2 


324 


THE  BLACK  HOUND. 


“ Where  ? There’s  never  no  cur  here  !” 

“ You  lie,  you  oaf — no — why — Doctor — How  man}  hounds 
are  there  here  ?” 

“ I can’t  see,”  says  Tom,  “ among  those  bushes.” 

“ Can’t  see,  eh?  Why  don’t  those  brutes  hit  it  off?”  says 
Trebooze,  drawling,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  the  matter,  and  loung- 
ing over  the  fence,  drops  into  the  stream,  followed  by  Tom,  and 
wades  across. 

The  hounds  are  all  round  him,  and  he  is  couraging  them  on, 
fussing  again  more  than  ever ; but  without  success. 

“ Gone  to  hole  somewhere  here,”  says  Peter. 

“ * * * !”  cries  Trebooze,  looking  round,  with  a sudden  shud- 
der, and  face  of  terror.  “ There’s  that  black  brute  again  ! there, 
behind  me ! Hang  it,  he’ll  bite  me  next ! ” and  he  caught  up  his 
leg,  and  struck  behind  him  with  his  spear. 

There  was  no  dog  there. 

Peter  was  about  to  speak ; but  Tom  silenced  him  by  a look, 
and  shouted, — 

“ Here  we  are  ! Gone  to  holt  in  this  alder  root ! ” 

“Now  then,  little  Carlingford ! Out  of  the  way,  puppies!” 
cries  Trebooze,  righted  again  for  the  moment  by  the  excitement, 
and  thrusting  the  hounds  right  and  left,  he  stoops  down  to  put 
in  the  little  terrier. 

Suddenly  he  springs  up,  with  something  like  a scream,  and 
then  bursts  out  on  Peter  with  a volley  of  oaths. 

“ Didn’t  I tell  you  to  drive  that  cur  away?” 

“ Which  cur,  Sir  ?”  cries  Peter,  trembling,  and  utterly  con- 
founded. 

“ That  cur  I * * * Can’t  I believe  my  own  eyes  ? Will  you 
tell  me  that  the  beggar  didn’t  bolt  between  my  legs  this  moment, 
and  went  into  the  hole  before  the  terrier?” 

Neither  answered.  Peter  from  utter  astonishment ; Tom 
because  he  saw  what  was  the  matter. 

“ Don’t  stoop,  Squire.  You’ll  make  the  blood  fly  to  your 
head.  Let  me — ” 

But  Trebooze  thrust  him  back  with  curses. 

“ I’ll  have  the  brute  out,  and  send  the  spear  through  him !” 
and  hinging  himself  on  his  knees  again,  Trebooze  began  tearing 
madly  at  the  roots  and  stones,  shouting  to  the  half-buried  terrier 
to  tear  the  intruder. 

Peter  looked  at  Tom,  and  then  wrung  his  hands  in  despair. 

“ Dirty  work — beastly  work ! ” muttered  Trebooze.  “ Nothing 
but  slugs  and  evats ! — Toads,  too, — hang  the  toads  ! What  a 
plague  brings  all  this  vermin?  Curse  it !”  shrieked  he,  spring- 
ing back,  “ there’s  an  adder  ! and  he’s  gone  up  my  sleeve  ! Help 
me  ! Doctor  ! Thurnall ! or  I’m  a dead  man!” 


THE  BLACK  HOUND.  325 

Tom  caught  the  arm,  thrust  his  hand  up  the  sleeve,  and  seemed 
to  snatch  out  the  snake,  and  hurl  it  back  into  the  river. 

“ All  right  now  ! — a near  chance,  though  ! ” 

Peter  stood  open  mouthed. 

“ I never  saw  no  snake  !”  cried  he. 

Tom  caught  him  a buffet  which  sent  him  reeling.  “Look 
after  your  hounds,  you  blind  ass ! How  are  you  now,  Trebooze  h ” 
And  he  caught  the  squire  round  the  waist,  for  he  was  reeling. 

“ The  world!  The  world  upside  down!  rocking  and  swinging! 
Who’s  put  me  feet  upwards,  like  a fly  on  a ceiling  ? I’m  falling, 
falling  off,  into  the  clouds — into  hell-fire — hold  me ! — Toads  and 
adders  ! and  wasps — to  go  to  holt  in  a wasp’s  nest ! Drive  ’em 
away, — get  me  a green  bough  ! I shall  be  stung  to  death  !” 

And  tearing  off  a green  bough,  the  wretched  man  rushed  into 
the  river,  beating  wildly  right  and  left  at  his  fancied  tormentors. 

“What  is  it  1”  cry  Campbell  and  Scoutbush,  who  have  run 
up  breathless. 

“ Delirium  tremens.  Campbell,  get  home  as  fast  as  you  can, 
and  send  me  up  a bottle  of  morphine.  Peter,  take  the  hounds 
home.  I must  go  after  him.” 

“ I’ll  go  home  with  Campbell,  and  send  the  bottle  up  by  a 
man  and  horse,”  cries  Scoutbush ; and  away  the  two  trot  at  a 
gallant  pace,  for  a cross-country  run  home. 

“ Mr.  Tardrew,  come  with  me,  there’s  a good  man  ! — I shall 
want  help.” 

Tardrew  made  no  reply,  but  dashed  through  the  river  at  his 
heels. 

Trebooze  had  already  climbed  the  plashed  fence,  and  was 
running  wildly  across  the  meadow.  Tom  dragged  Tardrew  up  it 
after  him. 

“ Thank  ’ee,  Sir,”  but  nothing  more.  The  two  had  not  met 
since  the  cholera. 

Trebooze  fell,  and  lay  rolling,  trying  in  vain  to  shield  his  face 
from  the  phantom  waSps. 

They  lifted  him  up,  and  spoke  gently  to  him. 

“ Better  get  home  to  Mrs.  Trebooze,  Sir,”  said  Tardrew,  with 
as  much  tenderness  as  his  gruff  voice  could  convey. 

“Yes,  home  ! home  to  Molly  ! My  Molly’s  always  kind. 
She  won’t  let  me  be  eaten  up  alive.  Molly,  Molly  !” 

And  shrieking  for  his  wife,  the  wretched  man  started  to  run 
again. 

“ Molly,  I’m  in  hell  ! Only  help  me  ! you’re  always  right ! 
only  forgive  me  ! and  I’ll  never,  never  again — ” 

And  then  came  out  hideous  confessions  ; then  fresh  hideous 
delusions. 


326 


THE  BLACK  HOUND. 


Three  weary  up-hill  miles  lay  between  them  and  the  house  : 
but  home  they  got  at  last. 

Trebooze  dashed  at  the  house,  tore  it  open ; slammed  and 
bolted  it  behind  him,  to  shut  out  the  pursuing  fiends. 

“ Quick,  round  by  the  back-door  ! ” said  Tom,  who  had  not 
opposed  him  for  fear  of  making  him  furious,  but  dreaded  some 
tragedy  if  he  were  left  alone. 

But  his  fear  was  needless.  Trebooze  looked  into  the  breakfast- 
room.  It  was  empty ; she  was  not  out  of  bed  yet.  He  rushed 
upstairs  into  her  bed-room,  shrieking  her  name  ; she  leaped  up 
to  meet  him ; and  the  poor  wretch  buried  his  head  in  that 
faithful  bosom,  screaming  to  her  to  save  him  from  he  knew  not 
what. 

She  put  her  arms  round  him,  soothed  him,  wept  over  him 
sacred  tears.  “ My  William  ! my  own  William  ! Yes,  I wrill 
take  care  of  you  ! Nothing  shall  hurt  you, — my  own,  own  !” 

Yain,  drunken,  brutal,  unfaithful.  Yes : but  her  husband 
still. 

There  was  a knock  at  the  door. 

“ Who  is  that  1 ” she  cried,  with  her  usual  fierceness,  terrified 
for  his  character,  not  terrified  for  herself. 

“ Mr.  Thurnall,  Madam.  Have  you  any  laudanum  in  the 
house  ? ” 

“ Yes,  here  ! Oh,  come  in  ! Thank  God  you  are  come  ! 
What  is  to  be  done  ? ” 

Tom  looked  for  the  laudanum  bottle,  and  poured  out  a heavy 
dose. 

“ Make  him  take  that,  Madam,  and  put  him  to  bed.  I will 
wait  downstairs  awhile  ! ” 

“ Thurnall,  Thurnall ! ” calls  Trebooze  : “ don’t  leave  me,  old 
fellow  ! you  are  a good  fellow.  I say,  forgive  and  forget.  Don’t 
leave  me  ! Only  don’t  leave  me,  for  the  room  is  as  full  of  devils 
as ” 

# * * # * 

An  hour  after,  Tom  and  Tardrew  were  walking  home  together. 

“ He  is  quite  quiet  now,  and  fast  asleep.” 

“ Will  he  mend,  Sir  h ” asks  Tardrew\ 

“ Of  course,  he  will  : and  perhaps  in  more  ways  than  one. 
Best  thing  that  could  have  happened — will  bring  him  to  his 
senses,  and  he’ll  start  fresh.” 

“ We’ll  hope  so, — he’s  been  mad,  I think,  ever  since  he  heard 
of  that  cholera.” 

“ So  have  others  : but  not  with  brandy,”  thought  Tom  : but 
lie  said  nothing. 

“ I say,  Sir,”  quoth  Tardrew,  after  a while,  “ how’s  Parson 
Headley  ? ” 


BEDPGELERT.  . 


327 


“ Getting  well,  I’m  happy  to  say.” 

“ Glad  to  hear  it,  Sir.  He’s  a good  man,  after  all ; though  we 
did  have  our  differences.  Eut  he’s  a good  man,  and  worked  like 
one.” 

“ He  did.” 

Silence  again. 

“Never  heard  such  beautiful  prayers  in  all  my  life,  as  he 
made  over  my  poor  maid.” 

“ I don’t  doubt  it,”  said  Tom.  “ He  understands  his  business 
•at  heart,  though  he  may  have  his  fancies.” 

“And  so  do  some  others,”  said  Tardrew  in  a gruff  tone,  as  if 

half  to  himself,  “ who  have  no  fancies Tell  you  what  it  is, 

Sir  : you  was  right  this  time ; and  that’s  plain  truth.  I’m  sorry 
to  hear  talk  of  your  going.” 

“ My  good  Sir,”  quoth  Tom,  “ I shall  be  very  sorry  to  go.  I 
have  found  place  and  people  here  as  pleasant  as  man  could  wish  : 
but  go  I must.” 

“ Glad  you’re  satisfied,  Sir ; wish  you  was  going  to  stay,”  says 
Tardrew.  “ Seen  Miss  Harvey  this  last  day  or  two,  Sir  ? ” 

“Yes.  YY>u  know  she’s  to  keep  her  school  ] ” 

“ I know  it.  Nursed  my  girl  like  an  angel.” 

“ Like  what  she  is,”  said  Tom. 

“ You  said  one  true  word  once  : that  she  was  too  good  for  us.” 

“For  this  world,”  said  Tom;  and  fell  into  a great  musing. 

By  those  curt  and  surly  utterances  did  Tardrew,  in  true  British 
bulldog  fashion,  express  a repentance  too  deep  for  words  ; too 
deep  for  all  confessionals,  penances,  and  emotions  or  acts  of  con- 
trition ; the  repentance  not  of  the  excitable  and  theatric  southern, 
unstable  as  water,  even  in  his  most  violent  remorse  : but  of  the 
still,  deep-hearted  northern,  whose  pride  breaks  slowly  and 
silently,  but  breaks  once  for  all ; who  tells  to  God  what  he  will 
never  tell  to  man  ; and  having  told  it,  is  a new  creature  from 
that  day  forth  for  ever. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BEDDGELERT. 

The  pleasant  summer  voyage  is  over.  The  Waterwitch  is 
lounging  off  Port  Madoc,  waiting  for  her  crew.  The  said  crew 
are  busy  on  shore  drinking  the  ladies’  healths,  with  a couple  of 
sovereigns  which  Valencia  has  given  them,  in  her  sister’s  name 
and  her  own.  The  ladies,  under  the  care  of  Elsley,  and  the  far 
more  practical  care  of  Mr.  Bowie,  are  rattling  along  among 


328 


BEDDGELERT. 


children,  maids,  and  boxes,  over  the  sandy  flats  of  the  Traetli 
Mawr,  beside  the  long  reaches  of  the  lazy  stream,  with  the  blue 
surges  of  the  hills  in  front,  and  the  silver  sea  behind.  Soon 
they  begin  to  pass  wooded  knolls,  islets  of  rock  in  the  alluvial 
plain.  The  higher  peaks  of  Snowdon  sink  down  behind  the 
lower  spurs  in  front ; the  plain  narrows ; closes  in,  walled  round 
with  woodlands  clinging  to  the  steep  hill-sides ; and,  at  last, 
they  enter  the  narrow  gorge  of  Pont-Aberglaslyn, — pretty  enough, 
no  doubt,  but  much  over-praised  ; for  there  are  in  Devon  alone 
a dozen  passes  far  grander,  both  for  form  and  size. 

Soon  they  emerge  again  on  flat  meadows,  mountain- cradled ; 
and  the  grave  of  the  mythic  greyhound,  and  the  fair  old  church, 
shrouded  in  tall  trees  ; and  last,  but  not  least,  at  the  famous 
Leek  Hotel,  where  ruleth  Mrs.  Lewis,  great  and  wise,  over  the 
four  months’  .Babylon  of  guides,  cars,  chambermaids,  tourists, 
artists,  and  reading-parties,  camp-stools,  telescopes,  poetry-books, 
blue  uglies,  red  petticoats,  and  parasols  of  every  hue. 

There  they  settle  down  in  the  best  rooms  in  the  house,  and 
all  goes  as  merrily  as  it  can,  while  the  horrors  which  they  have 
left  behind  them  hang,  like  a black  background,  to  all  their 
thoughts.  However,  both  Scoutbush  and  Campbell  send  as 
cheerful  reports  as  they  honestly  can ; and  gradually  the  ex- 
ceeding beauty  of  the  scenery,  and  the  amusing  bustle  of  the 
village,  make  them  forget,  perhaps,  a good  deal  which  they 
ought  to  have  remembered. 

As  for  poor  Lucia,  no  one  will  complain  of  her  for  being 
happy  ; for  feeling  that  she  has  got  a holiday,  the  first  for  now 
four  years,  and  trying  to  enjoy  it  to  the  utmost.  She  has  no 
household  cares.  Mr.  Bowie  manages  everything,  and  does  so, 
in  order  to  keep  up  the  honour  of  the  family,  on  a somewhat 
magnificent  scale.  The  children,  in  that  bracing  air,  are  better 
than  she  has  ever  seen  them.  She  has  Valencia  all  to  herself ; 
and  Elsley,  in  spite  of  the  dark  fancies  over  which  he  has  been 
brooding,  is  better  behaved,  on  the  whole,  than  usual. 

He  has  escaped — so  he  considers — escaped  from  Campbell, 
above  all  from  Thurnall.  From  himself,  indeed,  he  has  not 
escaped  ; but  the  company  of  self  is,  on  the  whole,  more  pleasant 
to  him  than  otherwise  just  now.  Eor  though  he  may  turn  up 
his  nose  at  tourists  and  reading-parties,  and  long  for  contem- 
plative solitude,  yet  there  is  a certain  pleasure  to  some  people, 
and  often  strongest  in  those  who  pretend  most  shyness,  in  the 
“ digito  monsfcrari,  et  diceri,  hie  est  : ” in  taking  for  granted  that 
everybody  has  read  his  poems ; that  everybody  is  saying  in  their 
hearts,  “ There  goes  Mr.  Vavasour,  the  distinguished  poet.  I 
wonder  what  he  is  writing  now  ] I wonder  where  he  has  been, 
to-day,  and  what  he  has  been  thinking  of.” 


3EDDGELERT. 


329" 


So  Elsley  went  up  Hebog,  and  looked  over  tlie  glorious  vista 
of  the  vale,  over  the  twin  lakes,  and  the  rich  sheets  of  wood- 
land, with  Aran  and  Moel  Meirch  guarding  them  right  and  left, 
and  the  grey  stone  glaciers  of  the  Glyder  walling  up  the  valley 
miles  above.  And  they  went  up  Snowdon,  too,  and  saw  little 
beside  fifty  fog-blinded  tourists,  five- and- twenty  dripping  ponies,, 
and  five  hundred  empty  porter-bottles ; wherefrom  they  returned, 
as  do  many,  disgusted,  and  with  great  colds  in  their  heads.  But 
most  they  loved  to  scramble  up  the  crags  of  Dinas  Emrys,  and 
muse  over  the  ruins  of  the  old  tower,  “ where  Merlin  taught 
Yortigern  the  courses  of  the  stars ; ” till  the  stars  set  and  rose 
as  they  had  done  for  Merlin  and  his  pupil,  behind  the  four  great 
peaks  of  Aran,  Siabod,  Cnicht,  and  Hebog,  which  point  to  the 
four  quarters  of  the  heavens  : or  to  lie  by  the  side  of  the  boggy 
spring,  which  once  was  the  magic  well  of  the  magic  castle,  till, 
they  saw  in  fancy  the  white  dragon  and  the  red  rise  from  its 
depths  once  more,  and  fight  high  in  air  the  battle  which  fore- 
told the  fall  of  the  Cymry  before  the  Sassenach  invader. 

One  thing,  indeed,  troubled  Elsley, — that  Claude  was  his 
only  companion ; for  Valencia  avoided  carefully  any  more 
tete-a-tete  walks  with  him.  She  had  found  out  her  mistake, 
and  devoted  herself  now  to  Lucia.  She  had  a fair  excuse 
enough,  for  Lucia  was  not  just  then  in  a state  for  rambles  and. 
scrambles ; and  of  that  Elsley  certainly  had  no  right  to  com- 
plain ; so  that  he  was  forced  to  leave  them  both  at  home,  with 
as  good  grace  as  he  could  muster,  and  to  wander  by  himself, 
scribbling  his  fancies,  while  they  lounged  and  worked  in  the 
pleasant  garden  of  the  hotel,  with  Bowie  fetching  and  carrying 
for  them  all  day  long,  and  intimating  pretty  roundly  to  Miss 
Clara  his  “ opeeenion,”  that  he  “ was  very  proud  and  thankful 
of  the  office  : but  he  did  think  that  he  had  to  do  a great  many 
things  for  Mrs.  Vavasour  every  day  which  would  come  with 
a much  better  grace  from  Mr.  Vavasour  himself ; and  that, 
when  he  married,  he  should  not  leave  his  wife  to  be  nursed 
by  other  men.” 

Which  last  words  were  spoken  with  an  ulterior  object,  well 
understood  by  the  hearer ; for  between  Clara  and  Bowie  there 
was  one  of  those  patient  and  honourable  attachments  so  common, 
between  worthy  servants.  They  had  both  “kept  company,” 
though  only  by  letter,  for  the  most  part,  for  now  five  years;, 
they  had  both  saved  a fair  sum  of  money ; and  Clara  might  have 
married  Bowie  when  she  chose,  had  she  not  thought  it  her  duty 
to  take  care  of  her  mistress  ; while  Bowie  considered  himself 
equally  indispensable  to  the  welfare  of  that  “ puir  feckless- 
laddie,”  his  master. 

So  they  waited  patiently,  amusing  the  time  by  little  squabbler 


330 


13EDDGELERT. 


of  jealousy,  real  or  pretended ; and  Bowie  was  faithful,  though 
Clara  was  past  thirty  now,  and  losing  her  good  looks. 

“ So  ye’ll  see  your  lassie,  Mr.  Bowie  !”  said  Sergeant  Mac- 
Arthur,  his  intimate,  when  he  started  for  Aberalva  that  summer. 
“ I’m  thinking  ye’d  better  put  her  out  of  her  pain  soon.  Five 
years  is  uwer  lang  courting,  and  she’s  na  jDullet  by  now,  saving 
your  pardon.” 

“ Hoooo ,”  says  Bowie  ; “ leave  the  green  gooseberries  to 

the  lads,  and  gi’  me  the  ripe  fruit,  Sergeant.” 

However,  he  found  love-making  in  his  own  fashion  so  pleasant, 
that,  not  content  with  carrying  Mrs.  Yavasour’s  babies  about  all 
day  long,  he  had  several  times  to  be  gently  turned  out  of  the 
nursery,  where  he  wanted  to  assist  in  washing  and  dressing 
them,  on  the  ground  that  an  old  soldier  could  turn  his  hand  to 
anything. 

So  slipped  away  a fortnight  and  more,  during  which  Valencia 
was  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  and  knew  it  also : for  Claude  Mellot, 
:‘half  to  amuse  her,  and  half  to  tease  Elsley,  made  her  laugh  many 
a time  by  retailing  little  sayings  and  doings  in  her  praise  and 
dispraise,  picked  up  from  rich  Manchester  gentlemen,  who  would 
•fain  have  married  her  without  a penny,  and  from  strong-minded 
Manchester  ladies,  who  envied  her  beauty  a little,  and  set  her 
down,  of  course,  as  an  empty-minded  worldling,  and  a proud 
aristocrat.  The  majority  of  the  reading-parties,  meanwhile, 
thought  a great  deal  more  about  Valencia  than  about  their  books. 
The  Oxford  men,  it  seemed,  though  of  the  same  mind  as  the 
Cambridge  men  in  considering  her  the  model  of  all  perfection, 
were  divided  as  to  their  method  of  testifying  the  same.  Two  or 
three  of  them,  who  were  given  to  that  simpering  and  flirting  tone 
with  young  ladies  to  which  Oxford  would-be-fine  gentlemen  are 
so  pitiably  prone,  hung  about  the  inn-door  to  ogle  her;  contrived 
always  to  be  walking  in  the  garden  when  she  was  there,  dressed 
out  as  if  for  High  Street  at  four  o’clock  on  a May  afternoon ; 
tormented  Claude  by  fruitless  attempts  to  get  from  him  an  intro- 
duction, which  he  had  neither  the  right  nor  the  mind  to  give  ; 
and  at  last  (so  Bowie  told  Claude  one  night,  and  Claude  told  the 
whole  party  next  morning)  tried  to  bribe  and  flatter  Valencia’s 
maid  into  giving  them  a bit  of  ribbon,  or  a cast-off  glove,  which 
had  belonged  to  the  idol.  Whereon  that  maiden,  in  virtuous 
indignation,  told  Mr.  Bowie,  and  complained  moreover  (as  maids 
are  bound  to  do  to  valets  for  whom  they  have  a penchant),  of 
Their  having  dared  to  compliment  her  on  her  own  good  looks  : 
by  which  act  she  succeeded,  of  course,  in  making  Mr.  Bowie 
understand  that  other  people  still  thought  her  pretty,  if  he  did 
not ; and  also  in  arousing  in  him  that  jealousy  which  is  often 
the  best  helpmate  of  sweet  love.  So  Mr.  Bowie  vrent  forth  in 


BEUDGELERT. 


331 


his  might  tliat  very  evening,  and  finding  two  of  the  Oxford  men, 
informed  them  in  plain  Scotch,  that,  “ Gin  he  caught  them,  or 
any  ither  such  skellums,  philandering  after  his  leddies,  or  his 
laddies’  maids  he’d  jist  knock  their  empty  pows  togither.”  To 
which  there  was  no  reply  hut  silence ; for  Mr.  Bowie  stood  six 
feet  four  without  his  shoes,  and  had  but  the  week  before  per- 
t formed,  for  the  edification  of  the  Cambridge  men,  who  held  him 
in  high  honour,  a few  old  Guards’  feats  ; such  as  cutting  in  two 
at  one  sword-blow  a suspended  shoulder  of  mutton ; lifting  a 
long  table  by  his  teeth ; squeezing  a quart  pewter  pot  flat  between 
his  fingers;  and  other  little  recreations  of  those  who  are  “born 
unto  Kapha.” 

But  the  Cantabs,  and  a couple  of  gallant  Oxford  boating  men 
who  had  fraternised  with  them,  testified  their  admiration  in  their 
simple  honest  wray,  by  putting  down  their  pipes  whenever  they 
saw  Valencia  coming,  and  just  lifting  their  hats  when  they  met 
her  close.  It  was  taking  a liberty,  no  doubt.  “ But  I tell  you, 
Mellot,”  said  Wynd,  as  brave  and  pure-minded  a fellow  as  ever 
pulled  in  the  University  eight,  “ the  Arabs,  when  they  see  such 
a creature,  say,  4 Praise  Allah  for  beautiful  women,’  and  quite 
right ; they  may  remind  some  fellows  of  worse  things,  but  they 
always  remind  me  of  heaven  and  the  angels ; and  my  hat  goes 
off  to  her  by  instinct,  just  as  it  does  when  I go  into  a church.” 

That  was  all ; simple  chivalrous  admiration,  and  delight  in  her 
loveliness,  as  in  that  of  a lake,  or  a mountain  sunset ; but  nothing 
more.  The  good  fellows  had  no  time^  indeed,  to  fancy  themselves 
in  love  with  her,  or  her  with  them,  for  every  day  was  too  short 
for  them  ; what  with  reading  all  the  morning,  and  starting  out 
in  the  afternoon  in  strange  garments  (which  became  shabbier  and 
more  ragged  very  rapidly  as  the  weeks  slipped  on)  upon  all  manner 
of  desperate  errands  ; walking  unheard-of  distances,  and  losing 
their  way  upon  the  mountains ; scrambling  cliffs,  and  now  and 
then  falling  down  them ; camping  all  night  by  unpronounceable 
takes,  in  the  hope  of  catching  mythical  trout;  trying  in  all  ways 
how  hungry,  thirsty,  dirty,  and  tired  a man  could  make  himself, 
and  how  far  he  could  go  without  breaking  his  neck,  any  approach 
to  which  catastrophe  was  hailed  (as  were  all  other  mishaps)  as 
44  all  in  the  day’s  work,”  and  44  the  finest  fun  in  the  world,”  by 
that  unconquerable  English  44  lebensgliickseligkeit,”  which  is  a 
perpetual  wonder  to  our  sober  German  cousins.  Ah,  glorious 
twenty-one,  with  your  inexhaustible  powers  of  doing  and  enjoying, 
eating  and  hungering,  sleeping  and  sitting  up,  reading  and  play- 
ing ! Happy  are  those  who  still  possess  you,  and  can  take  their 
fill  of  your  golden  cup,  steadied,  but  not  saddened,  by  the  remem- 
brance, that  for  all  things  a good  and  loving  God  will  bring  them 
into  judgment.  Happier  still  those  who  (like  a few)  retain  in 


332 


BEDDGELERT. 


body  and  soul  the  health  and  buoyancy  of  twenty-one  on  to  the 
very  verge  of  forty,  and  seeming  to  grow  younger-hearted  as  they 
grow  older-headed,  can  cast  off  care  and  work  at  a moment’s 
Avarning,  laugh  and  frolic  now  as  they  did  twenty  years  ago,  and 
say  with  Wordsworth — 

u So  was  it  when  I was  a boy, 

So  let  it  be  when  I am  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! ” 

Unfortunately,  as  will  appear  hereafter,  Elsley ’s  especial  betes 
noirs  were  this  very  Wynd  and  his  inseparable  companion,  Nay- 
lor, who  happened  to  be  not  only  the  best  men  of  the  set,  but 
Mellot’s  especial  friends.  Both  were  Rugby  men,  now  reading 
for  their  degree.  Wynd  was  a Shropshire  squire’s  son,  a lissom 
fair-haired  man,  the  handiest  of  boxers,  rowers,  riders,  shots, 
fishermen,  with  a noisy  superabundance  of  animal  spirits,  which 
maddened  Elsley.  Yet  Wynd  had  sentiment  in  his  way,  though 
he  took  good  care  never  to  show  it  Elsley ; could  repeat  Tenny- 
son from  end  to  end ; spouted  the  Mort  d’ Arthur  up  hill  and 
down  dale,  and  chaunted  rapturously,  44  Come  into  the  garden, 
Maud  ! ” while  he  expressed  his  opinion  of  Maud’s  lover  in  terms 
more  forcible  than  delicate.  Naylor,  fidus  Achates,  was  a 
Gloucestershire  parson’s  son,  a huge  heavy-looking  man,  with 
a thick  curling  lip,  and  a sleepy  eye ; but  he  had  brains  enough 
to  become  a first-rate  classic ; and  in  that  same  sleepy  eye  and 
heavy  lip  lay  an  infinity  of  quiet  humour;  racy  old  country 
stories,  quaint  scraps  of  out-of-the-way  learning,  jovial  old  bal- 
lads, which  he  sang  with  the  mellowest  of  voices,  and  a slang 
vocabulary,  which  made  him  the  dread  of  all  bargees  from 
Newnham  pool  to  Up  ware.  Him  also  Elsley  hated,  because 
Naylor  looked  always  as  if  he  was  laughing  at  him,  which  indeed 
he  was. 

And  the  worst  was,  that  Elsley  had  always  to  face  them  both 
at  once.  If  Wynd  vaulted  over  a gate  into  his  very  face,  with  a 
“How  de’  do,  Mr.  Vavasour?  Had  any  verses  this  morning  ? ” 
in  the  same  tone  as  if  he  had  asked,  4 4 Had  any  sport  ? ” Naylor’s 
round  face  was  sure  to  look  over  the  stone-wall,  pipe  in  mouth, 
with  a 44  Don’t  disturb  the  gentleman,  Tom ; don’t  you  see  he’s 
a composing  of  his  rhymes  ? ” in  a strong  provincial  dialect  put 
on  for  the  nonce.  In  fact,  the  two  young  rogues,  having  no 
respect  whatsoever  for  genius,  perhaps  because  they  had  each  of 
them  a little  genius  of  their  own,  made  a butt  of  the  poet,  as 
soon  as  they  found  out  that  he  was  afraid  of  them. 

But  worse  betes  noirs  than  either  Wynd  or  Naylor  were  on 
their  way  to  fill  up  the  cup  of  Elsley’s  discomfort.  And  at  last, 
Avithout  a note  of  warning,  appeared  in  Beddgelert  a phenome- 


BEDDGELERT. 


333 


non  ■which  rejoiced  some  hearts,  hut  perturbed  also  the  spirits 
not  only  of  the  Oxford  “ philanderer s,”  but  those  of  Elsley 
Yavasour,  and,  what  is  more,  of  Valencia  herself. 

She  was  sitting  one  evening  at  the  window  with  Lucia,  looking 
out  into  the  village  and  the  pleasure-grounds  before  the  hotel. 
They  were  both  laughing  and  chatting  over  the  groups  of  tourists 
in  their  pretty  Irish  way,  just  as  they  had  done  when  they  were 
girls ; for  Lucia’s  heart  was  expanding  under  the  quiet  beauty 
of  the  place,  the  freedom  from  household  care,  and  what  was 
more,  from  money  anxieties ; for  Valencia  had  slipped  into  her 
hand  a cheque  for  fifty  pounds  from  Scoutbush,  and  assured  her 
that  he  would  be  quite  angry  if  she  spoke  of  paying  the  rent  of 
the  rooms  ; Elsley  was  mooning  down  the  river  by  himself ; 
Claude  was  entertaining  his  Cambridge  acquaintances,  as  he  did 
every  night,  with  his  endless  fun  and  sentiment.  Gradually  the 
tourists  slipt  in  one  by  one,  as  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  faded  off 
the  peaks  of  Aran,  and  the  mist  settled  down  upon  the  dark 
valley  beneath,  and  darkness  fell  upon  that  rock-girdled  paradise ; 
when  up  to  the  door  below  there  drove  a car,  at  sight  whereof 
out  rushed,  not  waiters  only  and  landlady,  but  Mr.  Bowie  him- 
self, who  helped  out  a very  short  figure  in  a pea-jacket  and  a 
shining  boating  hat,  and  then  a very  tall  one  in  a wild  shooting- 
coat  and  a military  cap. 

“ My  brother,  and  mon  Saint  Pere  ! Lucia  ! too  delightful ! 
This  is  why  they  did  not  write.”  And  Valencia  sprang  up,  and 
was  going  to  run  down  stairs  to  them,  when  she  paused  at  Lucia’s 
call. 

“ Who  have  they  with  them?  Val, — come  and  look!  who 
can  it  be  ? ” 

Campbell  and  Bowie  were  helping  out  carefully  a tall  man, 
covered  up  in  many  wrappers.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  the  face  ; 
but  a fancy  crossed  Valentia’s  mind  which  made  her  look  grave, 
in  spite  of  her  pleasure. 

He  was  evidently  weak,  as  from  recent  illness ; for  his  two 
supporters  led  him  up  the  steps,  and  Scoutbush  seemed  full  of 
directions  and  inquiries,  and  fussed  about  with  the  landlady,  till 
she  was  tired  of  curtseying  to  “my  lord.” 

A minute  afterwards  Bowie  threw  open  the  door  grandly. 
“ My  lord,  my  ladies  ! ” and  in  trotted  Scoutbush,  and  began 
kissing  them  fiercely,  and  then  dancing  about. 

“ Oh  my  dears  ! Here  at  last — out  of  that  horrid  city  of  the 
plague ! Such  sights  as  I have  seen — ” and  then  he  paused. 
“Do  you  know,  Val  and  Lucia,  I’m  glad  I’ve  seen  it : I don’t 
know,  but  I feel  as  if  I should  be  a better  man  all  my  life ; and 
those  poor  people,  how  well  they  did  behave  ! And  the  Major, 
he’s  an  angel!  And  so’s  that  brick  of  a doctor,  and  the  mad 


334 


BEDDGELERT. 


schoolmistress,  and  the  curate.  Everybody,  I think,  hut  me. 
Hang  it,  Yal ! hut  your  words  shan’t  come  true  ! I will  he  of 
some  use  yet  before  I die  ! But  I’ve — ” and  Valencia  went  up 
to  him  and  kissed  him,  while  he  ran  on,  and  Lucia  said, — 

“You  have  been  of  use  already,  dear  Fred.  You  have  sent  me 
and  the  dear  children  to  this  sweet  place,  where  we  have  been 
safer  and  happier  than — ” (she  checked  herself) ; “ and  your 
generous  present  too.  I feel  quite  a girl  again,  thanks  to  you. 
Val  and  I have  done  nothing  but  laugh  all  day  long;”  and  she 
began  kissing  him  too. 

“ How  happy  could  I be  with  either, 

AVere  t’other  dear  charmer  away  ! ” 

broke  out  Scoutbush.  “ What  a pity  it  is  now,  that  I should 
have  two  such  sweet  creatures  making  love  to  me,  and  can’t  marry 
either  of  them  h Why  did  ye  go  and  be  my  father’s  daughters, 
mavourneen  ? I’d  have  made  a peeress  of  the  one  of  ye,  if  ye’d 
had  the  sense  to  be  anybody  else’s  sisters.” 

At  which  they  all  laughed,  and  laughed,  and  chattered  broad 
Irish  together  as  they  used  to  do  for  fun  in  old  Kilanbaggan  Castle, 
before  Lucia  was  a weary  wife,  and  Valencia  a worldly  fine  lady, 
and  Scoutbush  a rackety  guardsman,  breaking  half  of  the  ten 
commandments  every  week,  rather  from  ignorance  than  vice. 

“Well,  I’m  glad  ye’re  pleased  with  me,  asthore,”  said  he  at 
last  to  Lucia ; “ but  I’ve  done  another  little  good  deed,  I flatter 
myself ; for  I’ve  brought  away  the  poor  spalpeen  of  a priest,  and 
have  got  him  safe  in  the  house.” 

Valencia  stopped  short  in  her  fun. 

“ Why,  what  have  ye  to  say  against  that,  Miss  Val?” 

“ Why,  won’t  he  be  a little  in  the  way  said  Valencia,  not 
knowing  what  to  say. 

“Faith,  he  needn’t  trouble  you;  and  I shall  take  very  good 
care — I wonder  when  the  supper  is  coming — that  neither  he  nor 
any  else  troubles  me.  But  really,”  said  he,  in  his  natural  voice, 
and  with  some  feeling,  “ I was  ashamed  to  go  away  and  leave  him 
there.  He  would  have  died  if  we  had.  He  worked  day  and 
night.  Talk  of  saints  and  martyrs  ! Campbell  himself  said  he 
was  an  idler  by  the  side  of  him.” 

“ Oh  ! I hope  Major  Campbell  has  not  over-exerted  himself !” 
“ He  ? nothing  hurts  him.  He’s  as  hard  as  his  own  sword. 
But  the  poor  curate  worked  on  till  he  got  the  cholera  himself. 
He  always  expected  it,  longed  for  it ; Campbell  said — wanted  to 
die.  Some  love  affair,  I suppose,  poor  fellow  ! — and  a terrible 
bout  he  had  for  eight-and-forty  hours.  Thu  mail  thought  him 
gone  again  and  again ; but  he  pulled  the  poor  fellow  through, 
after  all ; and  we  got  some  one  (that  is,  Campbell  did)  to  take  his 


BEDDGELERT. 


duty ; and  brought  him  away,  after  a good  deal  of  persuasion  ; 
for  he  would  not  move  as  long  as  there  was  a fresh  case  in  the 
town  : that  is  why  we  never  wrote.  We  did  not  know  till  the 
last  hour  when  we  should  start ; and  we  expected  to  he  with  you 
in  two  days,  and  give  you  a pleasant  surprise.  He  was  half  dead 
when  we  got  him  on  board : but  the  week’s  sea-air  helped  him 
through ; so  I must  not  grumble  at  these  northerly  breezes.  6 It’s 
^ an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good,’  they  say  ! ” 

Valencia  heard  all  this  as  in  a dream  ; and  watched  her  chatter- 
ing brother  with  a stupified  air.  She  comprehended  all  now ; and 
bitterly  she  blamed  herself.  He  had  really  loved  her,  then ; set 
himself  manfully  to  die  at  his  post,  that  he  might  forget  her  in  a 
better  world.  How  shamefully  she  had  trifled  with  that  noble 
heart ! How  should  she  ever  meet — how  have  courage  to  look 
him  in  the  face  ] And  not  love,  or  anything  like  love,  but  sacred 
pity  and  self-abasement  filled  her  heart,  as  his  fair,  delicate  face 
rose  up  before  her,  all  wan  and  shrunken,  with  sad  upbraiding 
eyes  ; and  round  it  such  a halo,  pure  and  pale,  as  crowns,  in  some 
old  German  picture,  a martyr’s  head. 

“ He  has  had  the  cholera  ! he  has  been  actually  dying  ]”  asked 
she  at  last,  with  that  strange  wish  to  hear  over  again  bad  news, 
which  one  knows  too  well  already. 

“ Of  course  he  has.  Why,  you  are  not  going  away,  Valencia] 
You  need  not  be  afraid  of  infection.  Campbell,  and  Thurnall, 
too.  says  that’s  all  nonsense ; and  they  must  know,  having  seen 
it  so  often.  Here  comes  Bowie  at  last  with  supper  ! ” 

“ Has  Mr.  Headley  had  anything  to  eat  ]”  asked  Valencia,  who 
longed  to  run  away  to  her  own  room,  but  dared  not. 

“ He  is  eating  now  like  any  ged,  Ma’am ; and  Major  Camp, 
bell’s  making  him  eat  too.” 

“ He  must  be  very  ill,”  thought  she,  “for  mon  Saint  Pere 
never  to  have  come  near  us  yet : ” and  then  she  thought  with 
terror  that  her  Saint  Pere  might  have  guessed  the  truth,  and  be 
angry  with  her.  And  yet  she  trusted  in  Prank’s  secrecy.  He 
would  not  betray  her. 

Take  care,  Valencia.  When  a woman  has  to  trust  a man  not 
to  betray  her,  and  does  trust  him,  she  may  soon  find  it  not  only 
easy,  but  necessary,  to  do  more  than  trust  him. 

However,  in  five  minutes  Campbell  came  in.  Valencia  saw  at 
once  that  there  was  no  change  in  his  feelings  to  her  : but  he  could 
talk  of  nothing  but  Headley,  his  self-devotion,  courage,  angelic 
gentleness,  and  humility ; and  every  word  of  his  praise  was  a fresh 
arrow  in  Valencia’s  conscience;  at  last, — 

u One  knows  well  enough  what  is  the  matter,”  said  he,  almost 
bitterly — “ what  is  the  matter,  I sometimes  think,  with  half  the' 
noblest  men  in  the  world,  and  nine-tenths  of  the  noblest  women  * 


336 


BEDDGELERT. 


and  with  many  a one,  too,  God  help  them  ! who  is  none  of  the 
noblest,  and  therefore  does  not  know  how  to  take  the  bitter  cup, 
as  he  knows — ” 

“What  does  the  philosopher  mean  now?”  asked  Scoutbush, 
looking  up  from  the  cold  lamb.  Valencia  knew  but  too  well 
what  he  meant. 

“ He  has  a history,  my  dear  Lord.” 

“ A history  1 What ! is  he  writing  a book  ? ” 

Campbell  laughed  a quiet  under-laugh,  half  sad,  half  humorous. 

“I  am  very  tired,”  said  Valencia ; “ I really  think  I shall  go 
to  bed.” 

She  went  to  her  room ; but  to  bed  she  did  not  go  : she  sat 
down  and  cried  till  she  could  cry  no  more,  and  lay  awake  the 
greater  part  of  the  night,  tossing  miserably.  She  would  have 
done  better  if  she  had  prayed  ; but  prayer,  about  such  a matter, 
was  what  Valencia  knew  nothing  of.  She  was  regular  enough 
at  church,  of  course,  and  said  her  prayers  and  confessed  her  sins 
in  a general  way,  and  prayed  about  her  “ soul,”  as  she  had  been 
taught  to  do, — unless  she  was  too  tired : but  to  pray  really, 
about  a real  sorrow,  a real  sin  like  this,  was  a thought  which 
never  entered  her  mind ; and  if  it  had,  she  would  have  driven 
.it  away  again  : just  because  the  anxiety  was  so  real,  practical, 
human,  it  was. a matter  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  religion; 
which  it  seemed  impertinent — almost  wrong  to  lay  before  the 
Throne  of  God. 

So  she  came  downstairs  next  morning,  pale,  restless,  unre- 
freshed in  body  or  mind;  and  her  peace  of  mind  was  not 
improved  by  seeing,  seated  at  the  breakfast-table,  Frank  Headley, 
whom  Lucia  and  Scoutbush  were  stuffing  with  all  manner  of 
good  things. 

She  blushed  scarlet — do  what  she  would  she  could  not  help  it 
— when  he  rose  and  bowed  to  her.  Half  choked,  she  came 
forward  and  offered  her  hand.  She  was  “so  shocked  to  hear 
that  he  had  been  so  dangerously  ill, — no  one  had  even  told  them 
of  it, — it  had  come  upon  them  so  suddenly;”  and  so  forth. 

She  spoke  kindly,  but  avoided  the  least  tone  of  tenderness : 
for  she  felt  that  if  she  gave  way,  she  might  be  only  too  tender ; 
and  to  re-awaken  hope  in  his  heart  would  be  only  cruelty.  And, 
therefore,  and  for  other  reasons  also,  she  did  not  look  him  in  the 
face  as  she  spoke. 

He  answered  so  cheerfully  that  she  was  half  disappointed,  in 
spite  of  her  remorse,  at  his  not  being  as  miserable  as  she  had 
expected.  Still,  if  he  had  overcome  the  passion,  it  was  so  much 
better  for  him.  But  yet  Valencia  hardly  wished  that  he  should 
have  overcome  it,  so  self-contradictory  is  woman’s  heart ; and  her 
pity  had  sunk  to  half-ebb,  and  her  self-complacency  was  rising 


BEDDGELEHT. 


337 


with  a flowing  tide,  as  he  chatted  on  quietly,  ' ut  genially,  about 
the  voyage,  and  the  scenery,  and  Snowdon,  which  he  had  never 
seen,  and  which  he  would  ascend  that  very  day. 

“ You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Headley  ! ” cried  Lucia. 
“ Is  he  not  mad,  Major  Campbell,  quite  mad?” 

“ I know  I am  mad,  my  dear  Mrs.  Vavasour ; I have  been  so 
a long  time  : but  Snowdon  ponies  are  in  their  sober  senses, — and 
I shall  take  one  of  them.” 

“ Fulfil  the  old  pun  ? — Eegin  beside  yourself,  and  end  beside 
your  horse  ! I am  sure  he  is  not  strong  enough  to  sit  over  those 
rocks.  Ho,  you  shall  stay  at  home  comfortably  here;  Valencia 
and  I will  take  care  of  you.” 

“ And  mon  Saint  Pere  too.  I have  a thousand  things  to  say 
to  him.” 

“ And  so  has  he  to  Queen  Whims.” 

So  Scoutbush  sent  Bowie  for  “ John  Jones  Clerk,”  the  fisher- 
man, (may  his  days  be  as  many  as  his  salmon,  and  as  good  as  his 
flies  !)  and  the  four  stayed  at  home,  and  talked  over  the  Aberalva 
tragedies,  till,  as  it  befell,  both  Lucia  and  Campbell  left  the  room 
awhile. 

Immediately  Prank  rose,  and  walking  across  to  Valencia,  laid 
the  fatal  ring  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  returned  to  his  seat 
without  a word. 

“ You  are  very . I hope  that  it ,”  stammered  Valencia. 

“You  hope  that  it  was  a comfort  to  me?  It  was  ; and  I shall 
be  always  grateful  to  you  for  it.” 

Valencia  heard  an  emphasis  on  the  “was.”  It  checked  the 
impulse  (foolish  enough)  which  rose  in  her,  to  bid  him  keep  the 
ring. 

So,  prim  and  dignified,  she  slipped  it  into  its  place  on  her 
finger,  and  went  on  with  her  work  ; merely  saying, — 

“ I need  not  say  that  I am  happy  that  anything  which  I could 
do  should  have  been  of  use  to  you  in  such  a fearful  time.” 

“ It  was  a fearful  time  ! but  for  myself,  I cannot  be  too  glad 
of  it.  God  grant  that  it  may  have  been  as  useful  to  others  as  to- 
me ! It  cured  me  of  a great  folly.  How  I look  back,  I am 
astonished  at  my  own  absurdity,  rudeness,  presumption. — You 
must  let  me  say  it ! — I do  not  know  how  to  thank  you  enough 
I cannot  trust  myself  with  the  fit  words,  they  would  be  so 
strong  : but  I owe  this  confession  to  you,  and  to  your  exceeding 
goodness  and  kindness,  when  you  would  have  been  justified  in 
treating  me  as  a madman.  I was  mad,  I believe  : but  I am  in 
my  right  mind  now,  I assure  you,”  said  he  gaily.  “ Had  I not 
been,  I need  hardly  say  you  would  not  have  seen  me  here. 
What  a prospect  this  is  !”  And  he  rose  and  looked  out  of  the 
window. 


•338 


BEDDGELERT. 


Valencia  had  heard  all  this  with  downcast  eyes  and  unmoved 
face.  Was  she  pleased  at  it  ? dSTot  in  the  least,  the  naughty 
child  that  she  wa»  ; and  more,  she  grew  quite  angry  with  herself, 
ashamed  of  herself,  for  having  thought  and  felt  so  much  about 
him  the  night  before.  “ How  silly  of  me  ! He  is  very  well, 
and  does  not  care  for  me.  And  who  is  he,  pray,  that  I should 
even  look  at  him'?” 

And,  as  if  in  order  to  put  her  words  into  practice,  she  looked 
at  him  there  and  then.  He  was  gazing  out  of  the  window, 
leaning  gracefully  and  yet  feebly  against  the  shutter,  with  the 
full  glory  of  the  forenoon  sun  upon  his  sharp-cut  profile  and 
rich  chestnut  locks ; and  after  all,  having  looked  at  him  once, 
she  could  not  help  looking  at  him  again.  He  was  certainly 
a most  gentleman-like  man,  elegant  from  head  to  foot;  there 
was  not  an  ungraceful  line  about  him,  to  his  very  boots,  and 
the  white  nails  of  his  slender  fingers ; even  the  defects  of  his 
figure — the  too  great  length  of  the  neck  and  slope  of  the 
shoulders — increased  his  likeness  to  those  saintly  pictures  with 
which  he  had  been  mixed  up  in  her  mind  the  night  before. 
He  was  at  one  extreme  pole  of  the  different  types  of  manhood, 
and  that  burly  doctor  who  had  saved  his  life  at  the  other : but 
her  Saint  Pere  alone  perfectly  combined  the  two.  There  was 
nobody  like  him,  after  all.  Perhaps  her  wisest  plan,  as  Headley 
had  forgotten  his  fancy,  was  to  confess  all  to  the  Saint  Pere 
(as  she  usually  did  her  little  sins),  and  get  some  sort  of  abso- 
lution from  him. 

However,  she  must  say  something  in  answer — 

“ Yes,  it  is  a very  lovely  view ; but  really  I must  say  one 
more  word  about  this  matter.  I have  to  thank  you,  you  know, 
for  the  good  faith  which  you  have  kept  with  me.” 

He  looked  round,  seemingly  amused.  “ Cela  va  sans  dire!” 
rend  he  bowed  ; “ pray  do  not  say  any  more  about  the  matter ; ” 
and  he  looked  at  her  with  such  humble  and  thankful  eyes, 
that  Valencia  was  sorry  not  to  hear  more  from  him  than— 

“ Pray  tell  me — for  of  course  you  know — the  name  of  this 
exquisite  valley  up  which  I am  looking.” 

iC  Gwynnant.  You  must  go  up  it  when  you  are  well  enough, 
and  see  the  lakes ; they  are  the  only  ones  in  Snowdon  from  the 
banks  of  which  the  primaeval  forest  has  not  disappeared.” 

“ Indeed  l I must  make  shift  to  go  there  this  very  after- 
noon, for — do  not  laugh  at  me — but  I never  saw  a lake  in  my 
life.” 

“ Never  saw  a lake  1 ” 

“ No.  I am  a true  Lowlander  : born  and  bred  among  bleak 
Norfolk  sands  and  fens — so  much  the  worse  for  this  chest  of 
mine ; and  this  is  my  first  sight  of  mountains.  It  is  all  like 


BEDDGELERT.  339, 

a dream  to  me,  and  a dream  which  I never  expected  to  bo 
realized.” 

“Ah,  you  should  see  our  Irish  lakes  and  mountains — you 
should  see  Killarney  ! ” 

“I  am  content  with  these ; I suppose  it  is  as  wrong  to  break 
the  tenth  commandment  about  scenery,  as  about  anything  else.” 
“Ah.  but  it  seems  so  hard  that  you,  who  I am  sure  would 
appreciate  fine  scenery,  should  have  been  debarred  from  it,  while 
hundreds  of  stupid  people  run  over  the  Alps  and  Italy  every 
summer,  and  come  home,  as  far  as  I can  see,  rather  more  stupid 
than  they  went ; having  made  confusion  worse  confounded  by 
tilling  their  poor  brains  with  hard  names  out  of  Murray.” 

“ Hot  quite  so  hard  as  that  thousands,  every  day,  who  would 
enjoy  a meat  dinner,  should  have  nothing  but  dry  bread,  and 
not  enough  of  that.  I fancy  sometimes,  that,  in  some  myste- 
rious way,  that  want  will  be  made  up  to  them  in  the  next  life  ; 
and  so  with  all  the  beautiful  things  which  travelled  people  talk 
of — I comfort  myself  with  the  fancy,  that  I see  as  much  as  is 
good  for  me  here,  and  that  if  I make  good  use  of  that,  I shall 
see  the  Alps  and  the  Andes  in  the  world  to  come,  or  something 
much  more  worth  seeing.  Tell  me  now,  how  far  may  that  range 
of  crags  be  from  us  1 I am  sure  that  I could  walk  there  after 
luncheon,  this  mountain  air  is  strengthening  me  so.” 

“ Walk  thither  ? I assure  you  they  are  at  least  four  miles 
off.” 

“ Four  ? And  I thought  them  one  ! So  clear  and  sharp  as 
they  stand  out  against  the  sky,  one  fancies  that  one  could  almost 
stretch  out  a hand  and  touch  those  knolls  and  slabs  of  rock,  as 
distinct  as  in  a photograph ; and  yet  so  soft  and  rich  withal, 
dappled  with  pearly-grey  stone  and  purple  heath.  Ah ! — So  it 
must  be,  I suppose.  The  first  time  that  one  sees  a glorious 
thing,  one’s  heart  is  lifted  up  towards  it  in  love  and  awe,  till 
it  seems  near  to  one — ground  on  which  one  may  freely  tread, 
because  one  appreciates  and  admires  ; and  so  one  forgets  the 
distance  between  its  grandeur  and  one’s  own  littleness.” 

The  allusion  was  palpable  : but  did  he  intend  it  Surely 
not,  after  what  he  had  just  said.  And  yet  there  was  a sadness 
in  the  tone  which  made  Valencia  fancy  that  some  feeling  for 
her  might  still  linger  : but  he  evidently  had  been  speaking  to 
himself,  forgetful,  for  the  moment,  of  her  presence ; for  he 
turned  to  her  with  a start  and  a blush — “But  now — I have 
been  troubling  you  too  long  with  this  stupid  tete-h-tete  senti- 
mentality of  mine.  I will  make  my  bow,  and  find  the  Major. 

I am  afraid,  if  it  be  possible  for  him  to  forget  any  one,  he  has 
forgotten  me  in  some  new  moss  or  other.” 

lie  went  out,  and  to  Valencia’s  chagrin  she  saw  him  no  more, 

z 2 


340 


BEODGELERT. 


that  day.  He  spent  the  forenoon  in  the  garden,  and  the  after- 
noon in  lying  down,  and  at  night  complained  of  fatigue,  and 
stayed  in  his  own  room  the  whole  evening,  while  Campbell 
read  him  to  sleep.  Next  morning,  however,  he  made  his 
appearance  at  breakfast,  well  and  cheerful. 

“ I must  play  at  sick  man  no  more,  or  I shall  rob  you,  I see, 
of  Major  Campbell’s  company ; and  I owe  you  all  for  too  much 
already.” 

“ Unless  you  are  better  than  you  were  last  night,  you  must 
play  at  skk  man,”  said  the  Major.  “ I cannot  conceive  what 
exhausted  you  so  ; unless  you  ladies  are  better  nurses,  I must 
let  no  one  come  near  him  but  myself.  If  you  had  been  scolding 
him  the  whole  morning,  instead  of  praising  him  as  he  deserves, 
he  could  not  have  been  more  tired  last  night.” 

“ Pray  do  not ! ” cried  Prank,  evidently  much  pained ; “ I 
had  such  a delightful  morning,  and  every  one  is  so  kind — you 
only  make  me  wretched,  when  I feel  all  the  trouble  I am  giving.” 

“ My  dear  fellow,”  said  Scoutbush  en  grand  serieux , “ after  all 
that  you  have  done  for  our  people  at  Aberalva,  I should  be  very 
much  shocked  if  any  of  my  family  thought  any  service  shown  to 
you  a trouble.” 

“ Pray  do  not  speak  so,”  said  Prank,  “ I am  fallen  among 
angels,  when  I least  expected.” 

“ Scoutbush  as  an  angel !”  shrieked  Lucia,  clapping  her  hands. 

“ Elsley,  don’t  you  see  the  wings  sprouting  already,  under  his 
shooting  jacket  h ” 

“ They  are  my  braces,  I suppose,  of  course,”  said  Scoutbush* 
who  never  understood  a joke  about  himself,  though  he  liked  one 
about  other  people;  while  Elsley,  who  hated  all  jokes,  made  no 
answer — at  least  none  worth  recording.  In  fact,  as  the  reader 
may  have  discovered,  Elsley,  save  tete-a-tete  with  some  one  who 
took  his  fancy,  was  somewhat  of  a silent  and  morose  animal, 
and,  as  little  Scoutbush  confided  to  Mellot,  there  was  no  getting 
a rise  out  of  him.  All  which  Lucia  saw  as  keenly  as  any  one, 
and  tried  to  pass  off  by  chattering  nervously  and  fussily  for  him, 
as  well  as  for  herself ; whereby  she  only  made  him  the  more 
cross,  for  he  could  not  the  least  understand  her  argument — 

“ Why,  my  dear,  if  you  don’t  talk  to  people,  I must ! ” 

“ But  why  should  people  be  talked  to  h ” 

“ Because  they  like  it,  and  expect  it ! ” 

“ The  more  foolish  they.  Much  better  to  hold  their  tongues 
and  think.” 

“ Or  read  your  poetry,  I suppose  V’  And  then  would  begin  a 
squabble. 

Meanwhile  there  was  one,  at  least,  of  the  party,  who  was 
watching  Lucia  with  most  deep  and  painful  interest.  Lord 


BEDDGELERT. 


341 


Scoutbush  was  too  busy  with  his  own  comforts,  especially  with 
his  fishing,  to  think  much  of  this  moroseness  of  Elsley’s.  “ If 
he  suited  Lucia,  very  well.  His  taste  and  hers  differed  : but  it 
was  her  concern,  not  his  ” — was  a very  easy  way  of  freeing 
himself  from  all  anxiety  on  the  matter  : but  not  so  with  Major 
Campbell.  He  saw  all  this ; and  knew  enough  of  human 
nature  to  suspect  that  the  self-seeking  which  showed  as  morose- 
ness in  company,. might  show  as  downright  bad  temper  in 
X-)rivate.  Longing  to  know  more  of  Elsley,  if  possible,  to  guide 
and  help  him,  he  tried  to  be  intimate  with  him,  as  he  had  tried 
at  Aberalva ; paid  him  court,  asked  his  opinion,  talked  to  him 
on  all  subjects  which  he  thought  would  interest  him.  His  con- 
clusion was  more  favourable  to  Elsley’s  head  than  to  his  heart. 
He  saw  that  Elsley  was  vain,  and  liked  his  attentions  ; and  that 
lowered  him  in  his  eyes  : but  he  saw  too  that  Elsley  shrank 
from  him  ; at  first  he  thought  it  pride,  but  he  soon  found  that  it 
was  fear ; and  that  lowered  him  still  more  in  his  eyes. 

Perhaps  Campbell  was  too  hard  on  the  poet  : but  his  own 
purity  itself  told  against  Elsley.  “Who  am  I,  that  any  one 
should  be  afraid  of  me,  unless  they  have  done  something  wrong  ?” 
So,  with  his  dark  suspicions  roused,  he  watched  intently  every 
word  and  every  tone  of  Elsley’s  to  his  wife ; and  here  he  came 
to  a more  unpleasant  conclusion  still.  He  saw  that  they  were, 
sometimes  at  least,  not  happy  together ; and  from  this  he  took  for 
granted,  too  hastily,  that  they  were  never  happy  together  ; that 
Lucia  was  an  utterly  ill-used  person  ; that  Elsley  was  a bad  fellow, 
who  ill-treated  her  : and  a black  and  awful  indignation  against  the 
man  grew  up  within  him ; all  the  more  fierce  because  it  seemed 
utterly  righteous,  and  because,  too,  it  had,  under  heavy  penalties, 
to  be  utterly  concealed  beneath  a courteous  and  genial  manner  : 
till  many  a time  he  felt  inclined  to  knock  Elsley  down  for  little 
roughnesses  to  her,  which  were  really  the  fruit  of  mere  gauclierie  ; 
and  then  accused  himself  for  a hypocrite,  because  he  was  keeping 
up  the  courtesies  of  life  with  such  a man.  Eor  Campbell,  like 
most  men  of  his  temperament,  was  over-stern,  and  sometimes  a 
little  cruel  and  unjust,  in  demanding  of  others  the  same  lofty 
code  which  he  had  laid  down  for  himself,  and  in  demanding  it, 
too,  of  some  more  than  of  others,  by  a very  questionable  exercise 
of  private  judgment.  On  the  whole,  he  was  right,  no  doubt,  in 
being  as  indulgent  as  he  dared  to  the  publicans  and  sinners  like 
Scoutbush ; and  in  being  as  severe  as  he  dared  on  all  Pharisees, 
and  pretentious  persons  whatsoever  : but  he  was  too  much,  in- 
clined to  draw  between  the  two  classes  one  of  those  strong  lines 
of  demarcation  which  exist  only  in  the  fancies  of  the  human 
brain ; for  sins,  like  all  diseased  matters,  are  complicated  and 
confused  matters ; many  a seeming  Pharisee  is  at  heart  a self- 


542 


"BEPOGELERf. 


condemned  publican,  and  ought  to  be  comforted,  and  not  cm  sed  ; 
while  many  a publican  is,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  foul  sins,  a 
thorough  exclusive  and  self-complacent  Pharisee,  and  needs  not 
the  right  hand  of  mercy,  but  the  strong  arm  of  punishment. 

Campbell,  like  other  men,  had  his  faults  : and  his  were  those 
of  a man  wrapped  up  in  a pure  and  stately,  but  an  austere  and 
lonely  creed,  disgusted  with  the  world  in  all  its  forms,  and  look- 
ing down  upon  men  in  general  nearly  as  much  as  Thurnall  did. 
So  he  set  down  Elsley  for  a bad  man,  to  whom  he  was  forced  by 
hard  circumstances  to  behave  as  if  he  were  a good  one. 

The  only  way,  therefore,  in  which  he  could  vent  his  feeling, 
was  by  showing  to  Lucia  that  studied  attention  which  sympathy 
and  chivalry  demand  of  a man  toward  an  injured  woman.  Not 
that  he  dared,  or  wished,  to  conduct  himself  with  her  as  he  did 
with  Valencia,  even  had  she  not  been  a married  woman  ; he  did 
not  know  her  as  intimately  as  he  did  her  sister  : but  still  he  had 
a right  to  behave  as  the  most  intimate  friend  of  her  family,  and 
he  asserted  that  right  ; and  all  the  more  determinedly  because 
Elsley  seemed  nowr  and  then  not  to  like  it.  “I  will  teach  him 
how  to  behave  to  a charming  woman/’  said  he  to  himself;  and 
perhaps  he  had  been  wiser  if  he  had  not  said  it  : but  every  man 
has  his  weak  point,  and  chivalry  was  Major  Campbell’s. 

“What  do  you  think  of  that  poet,  Mellot?”  said  he  once,  on 
returning  from  a pic-nic,  during  wrhich  Elsley  had  never  noticed 
his  vrife ; and,  at  last,  finding  Valencia  engaged  with  Headley,  had 
actually  gone  off,  'pour  jns  alter,  to  watch  Lord  Scoutbush  fishing. 

“ Oh,  clever  enough,  and  to  spare  ; and  as  well  read  a man  as 
I know.  One  of  the  Sturm-und-drang  party,  of  course ; — the 
express  locomotive  school,  scream-and-go-ahead  : and  thinks  me, 
with  my  classicism,  a benighted  pagan.  Still,  every  man  has  a 
right  to  his  opinion.  Live  and  let  live.” 

“ I don’t  care  about  his  taste,”  said  the  Major,  impatiently. 
“ What  sort  of  man  is  he  ? — man,  Claude  V1 

“ Ahem,  humph  ! ‘ Irritabile  genus  poetarum.’  Put  one  is  so 
accustomed  to  that  among  literary  men,  one  never  expects  them 
to  be  like  anybody  else,  and  so  takes  their  whims  and  oddities 
for  granted.” 

“ And  their  sins  too,  eh  ? ” 

4 Sins  ? I know  of  none  on  his  part.” 

‘ Don’t  you  call  temper  a sin  ] ” 

“ No ; I call  it  a determination  of  blood  to  the  head,  or  of 
animal  spirits  to  the  wrong  place,  or — my  dear  Major,  I am  no 
moralist.  I take  people,  you  know,  as  I find  them.  Put  he  is 
* a bore  ; and  I should  not  wonder  if  that  sweet  little  woman  had 
found  it  out  ere  now.” 

Campbell  ground  something  between  his  teeth.  He  farcied 


BEDDGELERT. 


343 


himself  full  of  righteous  wrath  : he  was  really  in  a very  unchris- 
tian temper.  Be  it  so  : perhaps  there-  were  excuses  for  him  (as 
there  are  for  many  men),  of  which  we  know  nothing. 

Elsley,  meanwhile,  watched  Campbell  with  fast  lowering 
brow.  Losing  a woman's  affections  ? He  who  does  so  deserves 
his  fate.  Had  he  been  in  the  habit  of  paying  proper  attention 
| tc  Lucia,  he  would  have  liked  Campbell  all  the  more  for  his 
; conduct.  There  are  few  greater  pleasures  to  a man  who  is  what 
he  should  be  to  his  wife,  than  to  see  other  men  admiring  what 
he  admires,  and  trying  to  rival  him  where  he  knows  that  he  can 
have  no  rival.  Let  them  worship  as  much  as  they  will.  Let 
her  make  herself  as  charming  to  them  as  she  can.  What  matter  V 
He  smiles  at  them  in  his  heart ; for  has  he  not5  over  and  above 
all  the  pretty  things  which  he  can  say  and  do  ten  times  as  well 
as  they,  a talisman — a dozen  talismans  which  are  beyond  their 
reach  ? — in  the  strength  of  which  he  will  go  home  and  laugh 
over  with  her,  amid  sacred  caresses,  all  which  ’makes  mean  men 
mad  ? But  Elsley,  alas  for  him,  had  neglected  Lucia  himself, 
and  therefore  dreaded  comparison  with  any  other  man ; and  the 
suspicions  which  had  taken  root  in  him  at  Aberalva  grew  into 
ugly  shape  and  strength.  However  he  was  silent,  and  contented 
himself  with  coldness  and  all  but  rudeness. 

There  were  excuses  for  him.  In  the  first  place,  it  would  have 
been  an  ugly  thing  to  take  notice  of  any  man’s  attentions  to  a 
wife  ; it  could  not  be  done  but  upon  the  strongest  grounds,  and 
done  in  a way  which  would  make  a complete  rupture  necessary,, 
so  breaking  up  the  party  in  a sufficiently  -unpleasant  way. 
Besides,  to  move  in  the  matter -at  all  would  be  to  implicate 
Lucia ; for,  of  whatsoever  Lind  Campbell’s  attentions  were,  she 
evidently  liked  them ; and  a quarrel  with  her  on  that  score  was 
more  than  Elsley  dared  face.  He  was  not  a man  of  strong  moral 
courage ; he  hated  a . .scene  of  any  kind  ; and  he  was  afraid  of 
being  worsted  in.,  any  really  serious  quarrel,  not  merely  by 
Campbell,  but  by  Lucia.  It  may  seem  strange  that  he  should 
be  afraid  of  her,  though  not  so  that  he  should  be  afraid  of 
Campbell.  But  the  truth  is,  that  the  man  who  bullies  his  wife 
very  often  does  so — as  Elsley  had  done  more  than  once — simply 
to  prove  to  himself  his  own  strength,  and  hide  his  fear  of  her.. 
He  knew  well  that  woman’s  tongue,  when  once  the  “ fair  beast  ” 
is  brought  to  bay,  is  a weapon  far  too  trenchant  to  be  faced  by 
any  shield  but  that  of  a very  clear  conscience  toward  her  ; which 
was  more  than  Elsley  had. 

Beside — and  it  is  an  honour  to  Elsley  Yavasour,  amid  all  his 
weakness,  that  he  had  justice  and  chivalry  enough  left  to  know 
what  nine  men  out  of  ten  ignore — behind  all,  let  the  worst  come 
to  the  worst,  lay  one  just  and  terrible  rejoinder,  which  he,  though 


344 


BEDDGELERT. 


lie  had  been  no  worse  than  the  average  of  men,  could  only  answer 
by  silent  shame, — 

“At  least,  Sir,  I was  pure  when  I came  to  you!  You  best 
know  whether  you  were  so  likewise.” 

And  yet  even  that,  so  all-forgiving  is  woman,  might  have 
been  faced  by  some  means  : but  the  miserable  complication 
about  the  false  name  still  remained.  Elsley  believed  that  he 
was  in  his  wife’s  power  ; that  she  could,  if  she  chose,  turn  upon 
him,  and  proclaim  him  to  the  world  as  a scoundrel  and  an  im- 
postor. And,  as  it  is  of  the  nature  of  man  to  hate  those  whom 
he  fears,  Elsley  began  to  have  dark  and  ug]y  feelings  toward 
Lucia.  Instead  of  throwing  them  away,  as  a strong  man  would 
have  done,  he  pampered  them  almost  without  meaning  to  do  so. 
Eor  he  let  them  run  riot  through  his  too  vivid  imagination,  in 
the  form  of  possible  speeches,  possible  scenes,  till  he  had  looked 
and  looked  through  a hundred  thoughts  which  no  man  has  a 
right  to  entertain  for  a moment.  True;  he  had  entertained 
them  with  horror ; but  he  ought  not  to  have  entertained  them 
at  all ; he  ought  to  have  kicked  them  contemptuously  out  and 
back  to  the  devil,  from  whence  they  came.  It  may  be  again, 
that  this  is  impossible  to  man  ; that  prayer  is  the  only  refuge 
against  that  Walpurgis- dance  of  the  witches  and  the  fiends,  which 
will,  at  hapless  moments,  whirl  unbidden  through  a mortal 
brain  : but  Elsley  did  not  pray. 

So,  leaving  these  fancies  in  his  head  too  long,  he  soon  became 
accustomed  to  them ; and  accustomed  too,  to  the  Nemesis  which 
they  bring  with  them,  of  chronic  moodiness  and  concealed  rage. 
Day  by  day  he  was  lashing  himself  up  into  fresh  fury,  and  yet 
day  by  day  he  was  becoming  more  careful  to  conceal  that  fury. 
He  had  many  reasons  : moral  cowardice,  which  made  him  shrink 
from  the  tremendous  consequences  of  an  explosion — equally  tre- 
mendous, were  he  right  or  wrong.  Then  the  secret  hope,  perhaps 
the  secret  consciousness,  that  he  was  wrong,  and  was  only  saying 
to  God,  like  the  self -deceiving  prophet,  “ I do  well  to  be  angry;” 
then  the  honest  fear  of  going  too  far ; of  being  surprised  at  last 
into  some  hideous  and  irreparable  speech  or  deed,  which  he  might 
find  out  too  late  was  utterly  unjust : then  at  moments  (for  even 
that  would  cross  him)  the  devilish  notion,  that,  by  concealment, 
he  might  lure  Lucia  on  to  give  him  a safe  ground  for  attack.  All 
these,  and  more,  tormented  him  for  a wretched  fortnight,  during 
which  he  became,  at  such  an  expense  of  self-control  as  he  had  not 
exercised  for  years,  courteous  to  Campbell,  more  than  courteous 
to  Lucia ; hiding  under  a smiling  face,  wrath  which  increased 
with  the  pressure  brought  to  bear  upon  it. 

Campbell  and  Lucia,  Mellot,  Yalencia,  and  Frank,  utterly  de- 
ceived, went  on  more  merrily  than  ever,  little  dreaming  that  they 


BEDDGELEIiT. 


345 


•walked  and  talked  daily  with  a man  who  was  fast  becoming  glad 
to  flee  to  the  pit  of  hell,  but  for  the  fear  that  “God  would  be 
there  also.” 

They,  meanwhile,  chatted  on,  enjoying,  as  human  souls  are 
.allowed  to  do  at  rare  and  precious  moments,  the  mere  sensation 
of  being ; of  which  they  would  talk  at  times  in  a way  which  led 
them  down  into  deep  matters  : for  instance, — 

“ How  pleasant  to  sit  here  for  ever  ! ” said  Claude,  one  after- 
noon, in  the  inn  garden  at,  Beddgelert,  “ and  say,  not  with  Des- 
cartes, ‘ I think,  therefore  I exist;’  but  simply,  ‘ I enjoy,  therefore 
I exist.’  I almost  think  those  Emersonians  are  right  at  times, 
when  they  crave  the  ‘ life  of  plants,  and  stones,  and  rain.’  Stan- 
grave  said  to  me  once,  that  his  ideal  of  perfect  bliss  was  that  of 
an  oyster  in  the  Indian  seas,  drinking  the  warm  salt  water  motion- 
less, and  troubling  himself  about  nothing,  while  nothing  troubled 
itself  about  him.” 

“ Till  a diver  came  and  tore  him  up  for  the  sake  of  his  pearls  V’ 
.said  Valencia. 

“ He  did  not  intend  to  contain  any  pearls.  A pearl,  you  know, 
is  a disease  of  the  oyster,  tke  product  of  some  irritation.  He 
wished  to  be  the  oyster  pure  and  simple,  a part  of  nature.” 

“ And  to  be  of  no  use  t ” asked  Frank. 

“ Of  none  whatsoever.  Nature  had  made  him  what  he  was, 
and  all  beside  was  her  business,  and  not  his.  I don’t  deny  that 
I laughed  at  him,  and  made  him  wroth  by  telling  him  that  his 
doctrine  was  ‘ the  apotheosis  of  loafing.’  But  my  heart  went  with 
him,  and  the  jolly  oyster  too.  It  is  very  beautiful  after  all,  that 
-careless  nymph  and  shepherd  life  of  the  old  Greeks,  and  that 
Marquesas  romance  of  Herman  Melville’s — to  enjoy  the  simple 
fact  of  living,  like  a Neapolitan  lazzaroni,  or  a fly  upon  a wall.” 

“ But  the  old  Greek  heroes  fought  and  laboured  to  till  the 
land,  and  rid  it  of  giants  and  monsters,”  said  Frank.  “ And  as 
for  the  Marquesas,  Mr.  Melville  found  out,  did  he  not — as  you 
did  once — that  they  were  only  petting  and  fattening  him  for  the 
purpose  of  eating  him  'l  There  is  a dark  side  to  that  pretty  pic- 
ture, Mr.  Mellot.” 

“ Taut  pis  pour  eux  ! But  that  is  an  unnecessary  appendage 
to  the  idea,  surely.  It  must  be  possible  to  realize  such  a sinrple, 
rich,  healthy  life,  without  wickedness,  if  not  without  human 
sorrow.  It  is  no  dream,  and  no  one  shall  rob  me  of  it.  I have 
seen  fragments  of  it  scattered  up  and  down  the  world;  and  I 
believe  they  will  all  meet  in  Paradise — where  and  when  I care 
not ; but  they  will  meet.  I was  very  happy  in  the  South  Sea 
Jslands,  after  that,  when  nobody  meant  to  eat  me ; and  I am 
very  happy  here,  and  do  not  intend  to  be  eaten,  unless  it  will  be 
•any  pleasure  to  Miss  St.  J ust.  No  ; let  man  enjoy  himself  when  ho 


3 i 0 


BEDDGELEKT. 


can,  and  take  his  fill  of  those  flaming  red  geraniums,  and  glossy 
rhododenrons,  and  feathered  crown-ferns,  and  the  gold  green  lace 
of  those  acacias  tossing  and  whispering  overhead,  and  the  purple 
mountains  sleeping  there  aloft,  and  the  murmur  of  the  brook  over 
the  stones ; and  drink  in  scents  with  every  breath, — what  was 
his  nose  made  for,  save  to  smell  ] I used  to  torment  myself  once 
by  asking  them  all  what  they  meant.  Now,  I am  content  to  have 
done  with  symbolisms,  and  say,  4 What  you  all  mean,  I care  not, 
all  I know  is,  that  I can  draw  pleasure  from  the  mere  sight  of 
you,  as,  perhaps,  you  do  from  the  mere  sight  of  me ; so  let  us  sit 
together,  Nature  and  I,  and  stare  into  each  other’s  eyes  like  two 
young  lovers,  careless  of  the  morrow  and  its  griefs.’  I will  not 
even  take  the  trouble  to  paint  her.  Why  make  ugly  copies  of 
perfect  pictures  ] Let  those  who  wish  to  see  her  take  a railway 
ticket,  and  save  us  academicians  colours  and  canvas.  Qucmt  ct, 
moi , the  public  must  go  to  the  mountains,  as  Mahomet  had  to  do  ; 
for  the  mountains  shall  not  come  to  the  public.” 

44  One  of  your  wilful  paradoxes,  Mr.  Mellott ; why,  you  are 
photographing  them  all  day  long.” 

44  Not  quite  all  day  long,  Madam.  And  after  all,  il  f ant  vivre: 
I wrant  a few  luxuries ; I have  no  capacity  for  keeping  a shop ; 
photographing  pays  better  than  painting,  considering  the  time  it 
takes ; and  it  is  only  Nature  reproducing  herself,  not  caricaturing 
her.  But  if  any  one  will  ensure  me  a poor  two  thousand  a year, 
I will  promise  to  photograph  no  more,  but  vanish  to  Sicily  or 
Calabria,  and  sit  with  Sabina  in  an  orchard  all  my  days,  twining 
rose  garlands  for  her  pretty  head,  like  Theocritus  and  his  friends, 
while  the  4 pears  drop  on  our  shoulders,  and  the  apples  by  our 
side.’” 

44  What  do  you  think  of  all  this]”  asked  Valencia  of  Trank. 

44  That  I am  too  like  the  Emersonian  oyster  here,  very  happy, 
and  very  useless ; and,  therefore,  very  anxious  to  be  gone.” 

44  Surely  you  have  earned  the  right  to  be  idle  awhile]” 

44  No  one  has  a right  to  be  idle.” 

44  Oh  !”  groaned  Claude ; 44  where  did  you  find  that  eleventh 
commandment  ]” 

44 1 have  done  with  all  eleventh  commandments;  for  I find  it 
quite  hard  work  enough  to  keep  the  ancient  ten.  But  I find  it, 
5lellot,  in  the  deepest  abyss  of  all ; in  the  very  depth  from  which 
the  commandments  sprang.  But  wTe  will  not  talk  about  it 
here.” 

44  Why  not  ]”  asked  Valencia,  looking  up.  44  Are  we  so  very 
naughty  as  to  be  unworthy  to  listen  ] ” 

44  And  are  these  mountains,”  asked  Claude,  44  so  ugly  and  ill- 
made,  that  they  are  an  unfit  pulpit  for  a sermon]  No  ; tell  im> 
what  you  mean.  After  all,  I am  half  in  jest.” 


BEDDGELEIiT. 


347 


“ Do  not  courtesy,  pity,  chivalry,  generosity,  self-sacrifice, — in 
short,  being  of  use,— do  not  our  hearts  tell  us  that  they  are  the 
most  beautiful,  noble,  lovely  things  in  the  world?” 

i%  I suppose  it  is  so,”  said  Valencia. 

“ Why  does  one  admire  a soldier?  Not  for  his  epaulettes  and 
red  coat,  but  because  one  knows  that,  coxcomb  though  he  be  at 
home  here,  there  is  the  power  in  him  of  that  same  self-sacrifice ; 
that,  when  he  is  called,  he  will  go  and  die,  that  he  may  be  of 
use  to  his  country.  And  yet — it  may  seem  invidious  to  say  so 
just  now — but  there  other  sorts  of  self-sacrifice,  less  showy,  but 
even  more  beautiful.” 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Headley,  what  can  a man  do  more  than  die  for  his 
countrymen  ?” 

“ Live  for  them.  It  is  a longer  work,  and  therefore  a more 
difficult  and  a nobler  one.” 

Drank  spoke  in  a somewhat  sad  and  abstracted  tone. 

“ But,  tell  me,”  she  said,  “ what  all  this  has  to  do  with — with 
the  deep  matter  of  which  you  spoke  ? ” 

“ Simply  that  it  is  the  law  of  all  earth,  and  heaven,  and  Him 
who  made  them. — That  God  is  perfectly  powerful,  because  He  is 
perfectly  and  infinitely  of  use ; and  perfectly  good,  because  He 
delights  utterly  and  always  in  being  of  use  ; and  that,  therefore, 
we  can  become  like  God — as  the  very  heathens  felt  that  we  can, 
and  ought  to  become — only  in  proportion  as  w'e  become  of  use. 
I did  not  see  it  once.  I tried  to  be  good,  not  knowing  what  good 
meant.  I tried  to  be  good,  because  I thought  it  would  pay  me 
in  the  world  to  come.  But,  at  last,  I saw  that  all  life,  all  devo- 
tion, all  piety,  were  only  worth  anything,  only  Divine,  and  God- 
like, and  God-beloved,  as  they  were  means  to  that  one  end — to 
be  of  use.” 

“ It  is  a noble  thought,  Headley,”  said  Claude  : but  Valencia 
was  silent. 

“ It  is  a noble  thought,  Meliot ; and  all  thoughts  become  clear 
in  the  light  of  it ; even  that  most  difficult  thought  of  all,  which 
so  often  torments  good  people,  when  they  feel,  4 1 ought  to  love 
God,  and  yet  I do  not  love  Him.’  Easy  to  love  Him,  if  one  can 
once  think  of  Him  as  the  concentration,  the  ideal  perfection,  of 
all  which  is  most  noble,  admirable,  lovely  in  human  character ! 
And  easy  to  work,  too,  when  one  once  feels  that  one  is  working 
for  such  a Being,  and  with  such  a Being.;  as  that  ! The  whole 
world  round  us,  and  the  future  of  the  world  too,  seem  full  of 
light  even  down  to  its  murkiest  and  foulest  depths,  wffien  we 
can  but  remember  that  great  idea, — An  infinitely  useful  God 
over  all,  who  is  trying  to  make  each  of  us  useful  in  his  place. 
If  that  be  not  the  beatific  vision  of  which  old  Mystics  spoke  so 
rapturously,  one  glimpse  of  which  was  perfect  bliss,  I at  least 


BEDDGELERT 


34* 

know  none  nobler,  desire  none  more  blessed.  Pray  forgive  me 
Miss  St.  Just ! I ought  not  to  intrude  thus  !” 

“ Go  on  !”  said  Valencia. 

“ I — I really  have  no  more  to  say.  I have  said  too  much.  I 
do  not  know  how  I have  been  betrayed  so  far,”  stammered 
Frank,  who  had  the  just  dislike  of  his  school  of  anything  like 
display  on  such  solemn  matters. 

“ Can  you  tell  us  too  much  truth  ? Mr.  Headley  is  right, 
Mr.  Mellot,  and  you  are  wrong.” 

“ It  will  not  be  the  first  time,  Miss  St.  Just.  But  what  I 
spoke  in  jest,  he  has  answered  in  earnest.” 

“ He  was  quite  right.  We  are  none  of  us  half  earnest  enough. 
There  is  Lucia  with  the  children.”  And  she  rose  and  walked 
across  the  garden. 

“ You  have  moved  the  fair  trifler  somewhat,”  said  Claude. 

“ God  grant  it ! but  I cannot  think  what  made  me.” 

“ Why  think  ? You  spoke  out  nobly,  and  I shall  not  forget 
your  sermon.” 

“ I was  not  preaching  at  you,  most  affectionate  and  kindly  of 
men.” 

“ And  laziest  of  men,  likewise.  What  can  I do  now,  at  this 
moment,  to  be  of  use  to  any  one  h Set  me  my  task.” 

But  Frank  was  following  with  his  eyes  Valencia,  as  she  went 
hurriedly  across  to  Lucia.  He  saw  her  take  two  of  the  children 
at  once  off  her  sister’s  hands,  and  carry  them  away  down  a walk. 
A few  minutes  afterwards  he  could  hear  her  romping  with  them ; 
but  he  could  not  have  guessed,  from  the  silver  din  of  those  merry 
voices,  that  Valencia’s  heart  was  heavy  within  her. 

For  her  conscience  was  really  smitten.  Of  what  use  was  she 
in  the  world?  Major  Campbell  had  talked  to  her  often  about 
her  duties  to  this  person  and  to  that,  of  this  same  necessity  of 
being  useful ; but  she  had  escaped  from  the  thought,  as  we  have 
seen  her,  in  laughing  at  poor  little  Scoutbush  on  the  very  same 
score.  But  why  had  not  Major  Campbell’s  sermons  touched  her 
heart  as  this  one  had  ? Who  can  tell  ? Who  is  there  among  us 
to  whom  an  oft-heard  truth  has  not  become  a tiresome  and  super- 
fluous commonplace,  till  one  day  it  has  flashed  before  us  utterly 
new,  indubitable,  not  to  be  disobeyed,  written  in  letters  of  iire 
across  the  whole  vault  of  heaven  ? All  one  can  say  is,  that  her 
time  was  not  come.  Besides,  she  looked  on  Major  Campbell  as 
a being  utterly  superior  to  herself;  and  that  very  superiority, 
while  it  allowed  her  to  be  as  familiar  with  him  as  she  chose, 
excused  her  in  her  own  eyes  from  opening  to  him  her  real  heart. 
She  could  safely  jest  with  him,  let  him  pet  her,  play  at  being  his 
daughter,  while  she  felt  that  between  him  and  her  lay  a gulf  as 
wide  as  between  earth  and  heaven ; and  that  very  notion  com- 


13EDDGELERT. 


3 >9 


forted  her  in  her  naughtiness ; for  in  that  case,  of  course,  his  code 
of  morals  was  not  meant  for  her;  and  while  she  took  his  warn- 
ings (as  many  of  them  at  least  as  she  chose),  she  thought  herself 
hy  no  means  hound  to  follow  his  examples.  She  all  but  wor- 
shipped him  as  her  guardian  angel : but  she  was  not  meant  for 
an  angel  herself ; so  she  could  indulge  freely  in  those  little  esca- 
pades" and  frivolities  for  which  she  was  born,  and  then,  whenever 
frightened,  run  for  shelter  under  his  wings.  But  to  hear  the 
same,  and  even  loftier  words,  from  the  lips  of  the  Curate,  whom 
she  had  made  her  toy,  almost  her  butt,  was  to  have  them  brought 
down  unexpectedly  and  painfully  to  her  own  level.  If  this  was 
his  ideal,  why  ought  it  not  to  be  hers?  Was  she  not  his  equal, 
perhaps  his  superior  ? And  so  her  very  pride  humbled  her,  as 
she  said  to  herself, — “ Then  I ought  to  be  useful.  I can  be ; I 
will  be ! ” 

44  Lucia,”  asked  she,  that  very  afternoon,  44  will  you  let  me 
take  the  children  off  your  hands  while  Clara  is  busy  in  the 
morning  ? ” 

44  Oh,  you  dear  good  creature  ! but  it  would  be  such  a gene  ! 
They  are  really  stupid,  I am  afraid,  sometimes,  or  else  I am. 
They  make  me  so  miserably  cross  at  times.” 

44 1 will  take  them.  It  would  be  a relief  to  you,  would  it 
not?” 

44  My  dear ! ” said  poor  Lucia,  with  a doleful  smile,  which 
seemed  to  Valencia’s  self-accusing  heart  to  say,  44  Have  you  only 
now  discovered  that  fact  ? ” 

From  that  day  Valencia  courted  Headley’s  company  more  and 
more.  To  fall  in  love  with  him  was  of  course  absurd ; and  he 
had  cured  himself  of  his  passing  fancy  for  her.  There  could  be 
no  harm,  then,  in  her  making  the  most  of  conversation  so  different 
from  what  she  heard  in  the  world,  and  which  in  her  heart  of 
hearts  she  liked  so  much  better.  For  it  was  with  Valencia  as 
with  all  women ; in  this  common  fault  of  frivolity,  as  in  most 
others,  the  men  rather  than  they  are  to  blame.  Valencia  had 
cultivated  in  herself  those  qualities  which  she  saw  admired  by 
the  men  whom  she  met,  and  some  one  of  whom,  of  course,  she 
meant  to  marry ; and  as  their  female  ideal  was  a butterfly  ideal, 
a butterfly  she  became.  But  beneath  all  lay,  deep  and  strong, 
the  woman’s  love  of  nobleness  and  wisdom,  the  woman’s  longing 
to  learn  and  to  be  led,  which  has  shown  itself  in  every  age  in  so 
many  a fantastic  and  even  ugly  shape,  and  which  is  their  real 
excuse  for  the  flirting  with  44  geniuses,”  casting  themselves  at  the 
feet  of  directors  ; which  had  tempted  her  to  coquette  with  Elsley, 
and  was  now  bringing  her  into  44  undesirable”  intimacy  with  the 
poor  Curate. 

She  had  heard  that  day,  with  some  sorrow,  his  announcement 


35  0 


BEDDGELEET. 


that  he  wished  to  he  gone ; hilt  as  he  did  not  refer  to  it  again, 
she  left  the  thought  alone,  and  all  hut  forgot  it.  The  subject, 
however,  was  renewed  about  a week  afterwards.  “When  you 
return  to  Aberalva,”  she  had  said,  in  reference  to  some  com- 
mission. 

“ I shall  never  return  to  Aberalva.” 

“Not  return  1 ” 

“ No ; I have  already  resigned  the  curacy.  I believe  your 
uncle  has  appointed  to  it  the  man  whom  Campbell  found  for  me  : 
and  an  excellent  man,  I hear,  he  is.  At  least,  he  will  do  better 
there  than  I.” 

“ But  what  could  have  induced  you  ? How  sorry  all  the 
people  will  be  ! ” 

“ I am  not  sure  of  that,”  said  he  with  a smile.  “ I did  what 
I could  at  last  to  win  back  at  least  their  respect,  and  to  leave  at 
least  not  hatred  behind  me  : but  I am  unfit  for  them.  I did  not 
understand  them.  I meant — no  matter  what  I meant;  but  I 
failed.  God  forgive  me ! I shall  now  go  somewhere  where  I 
shall  have  simpler  work  to  do ; where  I shall  at  least  have  a 
chance  of  practising  the  lesson  which  I learnt  there.  I learnt  it 
all,  strange  to  say,  from  the  two  people  in  the  parish  from  whom 
I expected  to  learn  least.” 

“ Whom  do  you  mean?  ” 

“ The  doctor  and  the  schoolmistress.” 

“ Why  from  them  less  than  from  any  in  the  parish  ? She  so 
good,  and  he  so  clever  ? ” 

“ That  I shall  never  tell  to  any  one  now.  Suffice  it  that  I was 
mistaken.” 

Valencia  could  obtain  no  further  answer;  and  so  the  days  ran 
on,  every  one  becoming  more  and  more  intimate,  till  a certain 
afternoon,  on  which  they  were  all  to  go  and  pic-nic,  under 
Claude’s  pilotage,  above  the  lake  of  Gwynnant.  Scoutbush  was 
to  have  been  with  them ; but  a heavy  day’s  rain  in  the  mean- 
while swelled  the  streams  into  fishing  order ; so  the  little  man 
ordered  a car,  and  started  at  three  in  the  morning  for  Bettws 
with  Mr.  Bowie,  who,  however  loth  to  give  up  the  arrangement 
of  plates  and  the  extraction  of  champagne  corks,  considered  his 
presence  by  the  river-side  a natural  necessity. 

“ My  dear  Miss  Clara,  ye  see,  there’ll  be  nobody  to  see  that 
his  lordship  pits  on  dry  stockings ; and  he’s  always  getting  over 
the  tops  of  his  water-boots,  being  young  and  daft,  as  we’ve  all 
been,  and  no  offence  to  you ; and  to  tell  you  truth,  I can  stand 
all  temptations — in  moderation,  that  is, — save  an’  except  the 
chance  o’  cleiking  a fish.” 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


351 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 

The  spot  which.  Claude  had  chosen  for  the  pic-nic  was*  on  one 
of  the  lower  spurs  of  that  great  mountain  of  The  Maiden’s  Peak, 
which  hounds  the  vale  of  Gwynnant  to  the  south.  Above,  a 
wilderness  of  gnarled  volcanic  dykes,  and  purple  heather  ledges  ; 
below,  broken  into  glens,  in  which  still  linger  pale  green  ash- 
woods,  relics  of  that  great  primaeval  forest  in  which,  in  Bess’s  days, 
great  Leicester  used  to  rouse  the  hart  with  hound  and  horn. 

Among  these  Claude  had  found  a little  lawn,  guarded  by 
great  rocks,  out  of  every  cranny  of  which  the  ashes  grew  as 
freely  as  on  flat  ground.  Their  feet  were  bedded  deep  in  sweet 
fern  and  wild  raspberries,  and  golden-rod,  and  purple  scabious, 
and  tall  blue  campanulas.  Above  them,  and  before  them,  and 
below  them,  the  ashes  shook  their  green  filagree  in  the  brignt 
sunshine ; and  through  them  glimpses  were  seen  of  the  purple 
cliffs  above,  and,  right  in  front,  of  the  great  cataract  of  Xant 
Gwynnant,  a long  snow-white  line  zigzagging  down  coal-black 
cliffs  for  many  a hundred  feet,  and  above  it,  depth  beyond  depth 
of  purple  shadow  away  into  the  very  heart  of  Snowdon,  up  the 
long  valley  of  C wm-dyli,  to  the  great  amphitheatre  of  Clogwyn-y- 
Garnedd ; while  over  all  the  cone  of  Snowdon  rose,  in  perfect  sym- 
metry, between  his  attendant  peaks  of  Lliwedd  and  Crib  Coch. 

There  they  sat,  and  laughed,  and  talked,  the  pleasant  summer 
afternoon,  in  their  pleasant  summer  bower ; and  never  regretted 
the  silence  of  the  birds,  so  sweetly  did  Valencia’s  song  go  up, 
in  many  a rich  sad  Irish  melody ; while  the  lowing  of  the  milch 
kine,  and  the  wild  cooing  of  the  herd-boys,  came  softly  up  from 
the  vale  below,  “ and  all  the  air  was  filled  with  pleasant  noise 
of  waters.” 

Then  Claude  must  needs  photograph  them  all,  as  they  sat, 
and  group  them  first  according  to  his  fancy ; and  among  his 
fancies  was  one,  that  Valencia  should  sit  as  queen,  with  Headley 
and  the  Major  at  her  feet.  And  Headley  lounged  there,  and 
looked  into  the  grass,  and  thought  it  well  for  him  could  he  lie 
there  for  ever. 

Then  Claude  must  photograph  the  mountain  itself ; and  all 
began  to  talk  of  it. 

u See  the  breadth  of  light  and  shadow,”  said  Claude ; “ how 
the  purple  depth  of  the  great  lap  of  the  mountain  is  thrown 
back  by  the  sheet;  of  green  light  on  Lliwedd,  and  the  red  glory 
on  the  cliffs  of  Crib  Coch,  till  you  seem  to  look  away  into  thk 
bosom  of  the  hill,  mile  after  mile.” 


3 52  BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 

And  so  you  do,”  said  Headley.  “ I have  learnt  to  distin- 
guish mountain  distances  since  I have  been  here.  That  peak  is 
four  miles  from  us  now ; and  yet  the  shadowed  cliffs  at  its  foot 
seem  double  that  distance.” 

“ And  look,  look,”  said  Valencia,  “ at  the  long  line  of  glory 
with  which  the  western  sun  is  gilding  the  edge  of  the  left  hand 
slope,  bringing  it  nearer  and  nearer  to  us  every  moment,  against, 
the  deep  blue  sky ! ” 

“ But  what  a form  ! Perfect  lightness,  perfect  symmetry !” 
said  Claude.  “ Curve  sweeping  over  curve,  peak  towering  over 
peak,  to  the  highest  point,  and  then  sinking  down  again  as 
gracefully  as  they  rose.  One  can  hardly  help  fancying  that  the. 
mountain  moves ; that  those  dancing  lines  are  not  instinct  with 
life.” 

“ At  least,”  said  Headley,  “ that  the  mountain  is  a leaping 
wave,  frozen  just  ere  it  fell.” 

“ Perfect,”  said  Valencia.  “ That  is  the  very  expression  L 
So  concise,  and  yet  so  complete.” 

And  Headley,  poor  fool,  felt  as  happy  as  if  he  had  found  a 
gold  mine. 

“ To  me,”  said  Elsley,  “ the  fancy  rises  of  some  great  Eastern 
monarch  sitting  in  royal  state ; with  ample  shoulders  sloping, 
right  and  left,  he  lays  his  purple-mantled  arms  upon  the  heads 
of  two  of  those  Titan  guards  who  stand  on  either  side  his 
footstool.” 

“ While  from  beneath  his  throne,”  said  Headley,  “ as  Eastern, 
poets  would  say,  flow  everlasting  streams,  life-giving,  to  fertilize 
broad  lands  below.” 

“ I did  not  know  that  you,  too,  were  a poet,”  said  Valencia. 

“ Nor  I,  Madam.  But  if  such  scenes  as  these,  and  in  such 
company,  cannot  inspire  the  fancy  of  even  a poor  country  curate 
to  something  of  exaltation,  he  must  be  dull  indeed.” 

“ Why  not  put  some  of  these  thoughts  into  poetry  ] ” 

“ What  use  h ” answered  he  in  so  low,  sad,  and  meaning  a 
tone,  meant  only  for  her  ear,  that  Valencia  looked  down  at  him 
but  he  was  gazing  intently  upon  the  glorious  scene.  Was  he 
hinting  at  the  vanity  and  vexation  of  poor  Elsley’s  versifying  ? 
Or  did  he  mean  that  he  had  now  no  purpose  in  life, — no  prize 
for  which  it  was  worth  while  to  win  honour  h 

She  did  not  answer  him  : but  he  answered  himself, — perhaps 
to  explain  away  his  own  speech, — 

“No,  Madam!  God  has  written  the  poetry  already;  and 
there  it  is  before  me.  My  business  is  not  to  re-write  it  clumsily, 
but  to  read  it  humbly,  and  give  Him  thanks  for  it.” 

More  and  more  had  Valencia  been  attracted  by  Headley, 
during  the  last  few  weeks  Accustomed  to  men  who  tried  to 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


353 


make  the  greatest  possible  show  of  what  small  wits  they  pos- 
sessed, she  was  surprised  to  find  one  who  seemed  to  think  it 
a duty  to  keep  his  knowledge  and  taste  in  the  background. 
She  gave  him  credit  for  more  talent  than  appeared ; for  more, 
perhaps,  than  he  really  had.  She  was  piqued,  too,  at  his  very 
modesty  and  self-restraint.  Why  did  not  he,  like  the  rest  who 
dangled  about  her,  spread  out  his  peacock’s  train  for  her  eyes  ; 
and  try  to  show  his  worship  of  her,  by  setting  himself  off  in  his 
brightest  colours  f And  yet  this  modesty  awed  her  into  respect 
of  him  ; for  she  could  not  forget  that,  whether  he  had  sentiment 
much  or  little,  sentiment  was  not  the  staple  of  his  manhood  : 
she  could  not  forget  his  cholera  work  ; and  she  knew  that,  under 
that  delicate  and  bashful  outside,  lay  virtue  and  heroism,  enough 
and  to  spare. 

“ But,  if  you  put  these  thoughts  into  words,  you  would  teach 
others  to  read  that  poetry.” 

“ My  business  is  to  teach  people  to  do  right ; and  if  I cannot, 
to  pray  God  to  find  some  one  who  can.” 

“ Bight,  Headley  ! ” said  Major  Campbell,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  Curate’s  shoulder.  44  God  dwells  no  more  in  books  written 
with  pens  than  in  temples  made  with  hands ; and  the  sacrifice 
which  pleases  Him  is  not  verse,  but  righteousness.  Do  you 
recollect,  Queen  Whims,  what  I wrote  once  in  your  album  ? 

4 Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever, 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long, 

So  making  life,  death,  and  that  vast  forever, 

One  grand,  sweet  song,’  ” 

44  But,  you  naughty,  hypocritical  Saint  Pere,  you  write  poetry 
yourself,  and  beautifully.” 

4 4 Yes,  as  I smoke  my  cigar,  to  comfort  my  poor  rheumatic 
old  soul.  But  if  I lived  only  to  write  poetry,  I should  think 
myself  as  wise  as  if  I lived  only  to  smoke  tobacco.” 

Valencia’s  eyes  could  not  help  glancing  at  Elsley,  who  had 
wandered  away  to  the  neighbouring  brook,  and  was  gazing  with 
all  his  eyes  upon  a ferny  rock,  having  left  Lucia  to  help  Claude 
with  his  photographing. 

Prank  saw  her  look,  and  read  its  meaning ; and  answered  her 
thoughts,  perhaps  too  hastily.  , 

44  And  what  a really  well-read  and  agreeable  man  he  is,  all 
the  while  ! What  a mine  of  quaint  learning,  and  beautiful  Did 
legend  ! — If  he  would  but  bring  it  into  the  common  stock  for 
every  one’s  amusement,  instead  of  hoarding  it  up  for  himself  ! ” 

44  Why,  what  else  does  he  do  but  bring  it  into  the  common 
stock,  when  he  publishes  a book  which  every  one  can  read  ? ” 
said  Valencia,  half  out  of  the  spirit  of  contradiction. 

44  And  few  understand,”  said  Headley,  quietly. 


354 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


“ You  are  very  unjust ; he  is  a very  discerning  and  agreeable 
person,  and  I shall  go  and  talk  to  him.”  And  away  went 
Valencia  to  Elsley,  somewhat  cross.  Woman-like,  she  allowed, 
for  the  sake  of  her  sister’s  honour,  no  one  but  herself  to  depreciate 
Vavasour,  and  chose  to  think  it  impertinent  on  Headley’s  part. 

Headley  began  quietly  talking  to  Major  Campbell  about 
botany,  while  Valencia,  a little  ashamed  of  herself  all  the  while, 
took  her  revenge  on  Elsley  by  scolding  him  for  his  unsocial  ways, 
in  the  very  terms  which  Headley  had  been  using. 

At  last  Claude,  having  finished  his  photographing,  departed 
downward  to  get  some  new  view  from  the  road  below,  and 
Lucia  returned  to  the  rest  of  the  party.  Valencia  joined  them 
at  once,  bringing  up  Elsley,  who  was  not  in  the  best  of  humours 
after  her  diatribes ; and  the  whole  party  wandered  about  the 
woodland,  and  scrambled  down  beside  the  torrent  beds. 

At  last  they  came  to  a point  where  they  could  descend  no 
further;  for  the  stream,  falling  over  a cliff,  had  worn  itself  a 
narrow  chasm  in  the  rock,  and  thundered  down  it  into  a deep 
narrow  pool. 

Lucia,  who  was  basking  in  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers  as 
simply  as  a child,  would  needs  peep  over  the  brink,  and  made 
Elsley  hold  her  while  she  looked  down.  A quiet  happiness,  as 
of  old  recollections,  came  into  her  eyes,  as  she  watched  the 
sparkling  and  foaming  water — 

“And  beauty,  bom  of  murmuring  sound, 

Did  pass  into  her  face.  ” 

Campbell  started.  The  Lucia  of  seven  years  ago  seemed  to 
bloom  out  again  in  that  pale  face  and  wrinkled  forehead ; and  a 
smile  came  over  his  face,  too,  as  he  looked. 

“Just  like  the  dear  old  waterfall  at  Kilanbaggan.  You  recol- 
lect it,  Major  Campbell'?” 

Elsley  always  disliked  recollections  of  Kilanbaggan ; recol- 
lections of  her  fife  before  he  knew  her;  recollections  of  pleasures 
in  which  he  had  not  shared ; especially  recollections  of  her  old 
acquaintance  with  the  Major. 

“ I do  not,  I am  ashamed  to  say,”  replied  the  Major. 

“ Why,  you  were  there  a whole  summer.  Ah  ! I suppose  you 
thought  about  nothing  but  your  salmon  fishing.  If  Elsley  had 
been  there  he  would  not  have  forgotten  a rock  or  a pool.  W ould 
you,  Elsley  h ” 

“ Keally,  in  spite  of  all  salmon,  I have  not  forgotten  a rock  or 
a pool  about  the  place  which  I ever  saw  : but  at  the  waterfall  I 
never  was.” 

“ So  he  has  not  forgotten  *?  What  cause  had  he  to  remember 
so  carefully  h ” thought  Elsley. 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE.  355 

“ Oil,  Elsley,  look  ! Wliat  is  that  exquisite  flower,  like  a ball 
of  gold,  hanging  just  over  the  water  ? ” 

If  Elsley  had  not  had  the  evil  spirit  haunting  about  him,  he 
would  have  joined  in  Lucia’s  admiration  of  the  beautiful  creature, 
as  it  dropped  into  the  foam  from  its  narrow  ledge,  with  its  fan  of 
palmate  leaves  bright  green  against  the  black  mosses  of  the  rock, 
and  iife  golden  petals  glowing  like  a tiny  sun  in  the  darkness  of 
the  chasm  : as  it  was,  he  answered — 

“ Only  a buttercup.” 

“ I am  sure  it’s  not  a buttercup  ! It  is  three  times  as  large, 
and  a so  much  paler  yellow ! Is  it  a buttercup,  now,  Mai  or 
Campbell  h ” 

Campbell  looked  down. 

“ Very  nearly  one,  after  all : but  its  real  name  is  the  globe 
flower.  It  is  common  enough  here  in  spring ; you  may  see  the 
leaves  in  every  pasture.  But  I suppose  this  plant,  hidden  from 
the  light,  has  kept  its  flowers  till  the  autumn.” 

“ And  till  I came  to  see  it,  darling  that  it  is  ! I should  like 
to  reward  it  by  wearing  it  home.” 

“ I dare  say  it  would  be  very  proud  of  the  honour ; especially 
if  Mr.  Vavasour  would  embalm  it  in  verse,  after  it  had  done 
service  to  you.” 

“It  is  doing  good  enough  service  where  it  is,”  said  Elsley. 
“ Why  pluck  out  the  very  eye  of  that  perfect  picture  h ” 

“ Strange,”  said  Lucia,  “ that  such  a beautiful  thing  should  be 
born  there  all  alone  upon  these  rocks,  with  no  one  to  look  at  it.” 
“It  enjoys  itself  sufficiently  without  us,  no  doubt,”  said 
Elsley. 

“ Yes ; but  I want  to  enjoy  it.  Oh,  if  you  could  but  get  it 
for  me ! ” 

Elsley  looked  down.  There  was  fifteen  feet  of  somewhat 
slippery  rock ; then  a ragged  ledge  a foot  broad,  in  a crack  of 
which  the  flower  grew;  then  the  dark  boiling  pool.  Elsley 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said,  smiling,  as  if  it  were  a fine 
thing  to  say — “ Beally,  my  dear,  all  men  are  not  knight  errants 
enough  to  endanger  their  necks  for  a bit  of  weed  ; and  I cannot 
say  that  such  rough  tours  de  force  are  at  all  to  my  fancy.” 

Lucia  turned  away  : but  she  was  vexed.  Campbell  could  see 
that  a strange  fancy  for  the  plant  had  seized  her.  As  she  walked 
from  the  spot,  he  could  hear  her  talking  about  its  beauty  to 
Valencia. 

Campbell’s  blood  boiled.  To  be  asked  by  that  woman — by 
any  woman — to  get  her  that  flower  : and  to  be  afraid  ! It  was 
bad  enough  to  be  ill-tempered ; but  to  be  a coward,  and  to  be 
proud  thereof ! He  yielded  to  a temptation,  which  he  had  much 
better  have  left  alone,  seeing  that  Lucia  had  not  asked  him ; 

A A 2 


356 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


swung  himself  easily  enough  down  the  ledge;  got  the  floweiv 
and  put  it,  quietly  bowing,  into  Mrs.  Vavasour’s  hand. 

He  was  frightened  when  he  had  done  it ; for  he  saw,  to  his 
surprise,  that  she  was  frightened.  She  took  the  flower,  smiling 
thanks,  and  expressing  a little  common-place  horror  and  aston- 
ishment at  his  having  gone  down  such  a dangerous  cliff : hut  she 
took  it  to  Elsley,  drew  his  arm  through  hers,  and  seemed  deter- 
mined to  make  as  much  of  him  as  possible  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon.  “ The  fellow  was  jealous,  then,  in  addition  to  his 
other  sins  ! ” And  Campbell,  who  felt  that  he  had  put  himself 
unnecessarily  forward  between  husband  and  wife,  grew  more  and 
more  angry;  and  somehow,  unlike  his  usual  wont,  refused  to 
confess  himself  in  the  wrong,  because  he  was  in  the  wrong. 
Certainly  it  was  not  pleasant  for  poor  Elsley  ; and  so  Lucia  felt, 
and  bore  with  him  when  he  refused  to  be  comforted,  and  rendered 
blessing  for  railing  when  he  said  to  her  more  than  one  angry 
word ; but  she  had  been  accustomed  to  angry  words  by  this 
time. 

All  might  have  passed  off,  but  for  that  careless  Valencia,  who 
had  not  seen  the  details  of  what  had  passed;  and  so  advised 
herself  to  ask  where  Lucia  got  that  beautiful  plant  'l 

44  Major  Campbell  picked  it  up  for  her  from  the  cliff,”  said 
Elsley,  drily. 

“ Ah  ? at  the  risk  of  his  neck,  I don’t  doubt.  He  is  the  most 
matchless  cavalier  servente.” 

44  I shall  leave  Mrs.  Vavasour  to  his  care,  then — that  is,  for 
the  present,”  said  Elsley,  drawing  his  arm  from  Lucia’s. 

“ I assure  you,”  answered  she,  roused  in  her  turn  by  his  deter- 
mined bad  temper,  “ I am  not  the  least  afraid  of  being  left  in 
the  charge  of  so  old  a friend.” 

Elsley  made  no  answer,  but  sprang  down  through  the  thickets, 
calling  loudly  to  Claude  Mellot. 

It  was  very  naughty  of  Lucia,  no  doubt : but  even  a worm 
will  turn;  and  there  are  times  when  people  who  have  not  courage 
to  hold  their  peace  must  say  something  or  other;  and  do  not 
always,  in  the  hurry,  get  out  what  they  ought,  but  only  what 
they  have  time  to  think  of.  And  she  forgot  what  she  had  said 
the  next  minute,  in  Major  Campell’s  question — 

“Am  I,  then,  so  old  a friend,  Mrs.  Vavasour  1 ” 

“ Of  course ; who  older  1 ” 

Campbell  was  silent  a moment.  If  he  was  inclined  to  choke, 
at  least  Lucia  did  not  see  it. 

4 4 1 trust  I have  not  offended  your — Mr.  Vavasour  h ” 

44  Oh  ! ” she  said,  with  a forced  gaiety,  44  only  one  of  his  poetic 
fancies.  He  wanted  so  much  to  see  Mr.  Mellot  photograph  the 
waterfall.  I hope  he  will  be  in  time  to  find  him.” 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE.  357 

“ I am  a plain  soldier,  Mrs.  Vavasour,  and  I only  ask  because 
I do  not  understand.  What  are  poetic  fancies ? ” 

Lucia  looked  up  in  his  face  puzzled,  and  saw  there  an  expres- 
sion so  grave,  pitying,  tender,  that  her  heart  leaped  up  toward 
him,  and  then  sank  back  again. 

“ Why  do  you  ask?  Why  need  you  know?  You  are  no 
poet.” 

“ And  for  that  veiy  cause  I asked  you.” 

“ Oh,  but,”  said  she,  guessing  at  what  was  in  his  mind,  and 
trying,  woman-like,  to  play  purposely  at  cross  purposes,  and  to 
defend  her  husband  at  all  risks;  “ he  has  an  extraordinary  poetic 
faculty  ; all  the  world  agrees  to  that,  Major  Campbell.” 

“ What  matter  ? ” said  he.  Lucia  would  have  been  very 
angry,  and  perhaps  ought  to  have  been  so ; for  what  business  of 
Campbell’s  was  it  whether  her  husband  were  kind  to  her  or  not  ? 
But  there  was  a deep  sadness,  almost  despair,  in  the  tone,  which 
disarmed  her. 

“ Oh,  Major  Campbell,  is  it  not  a glorious  thing  to  be  a poet  ? 
And  it  is  not  a glorious  thing  to  be  a poet’s  wife  ? Oh,  for  the 
sake  of  that — if  I could  but  see  him  honoured,  appreciated, 
famous,  as  he  will  be  some  day ! Though  I think  ” (and  she 
spoke  with  all  a woman’s  pride)  “ he  is  somewhat  famous  now, 
is  he  not  ? ” 

“ Famous?  Yes,”  answered  Campbell,  with  an  abstracted 
voice,  and  then  rejoined  quickly,  “If  you  could  but  see  that, 
what  then  ? ” 

“ Why  then,”  said  she,  with  a half  smile  (for  she  had  nearly 
entrapped  herself  into  an  admission  of  what  she  was  determined 
to  conceal) — “ why  then,  I should  be  still  more  what  I am  now, 
his  devoted  little  wife,  who  cares  for  nobody  and  nothing  but 
jDutting  his  study  to  rights,  and  bringing  up  his  children.” 

“ Happy  children  ! ” said  he,  after  a pause,  and  half  to  himself, 
“ who  have  such  a mother  to  bring  them  up.” 

“Do  you  really  think  so ? But  flattery  used  not  to  be  one  of 
your  sins.  Ah,  I wish  you  could  give  me  some  advice  about 
how  I am  to  teach  them.” 

“ So  it  is  she  who  has  the  work  of  education,  not  he  ! ” 
thought  Campbell  to  himself ; and  then  answered  gaily,— 

“ My  dear  Madam,  what  can  a confirmed  old  bachelor  like  me 
know  about  children  ? ” 

“ Oh,  don’t  you  know  ” (and  she  gave  one  of  her  pretty  Irish 
laughs)  “ that  it  is  the  old  maids  who  always  write  the  children’s 
books,  for  the  benefit  of  us  poor  ignorant  married  women  ? But  ” 
(and  she  spoke  earnestly  again)  “ we  all  know  how  wise  and  good 
you  are.  I did  not  know  it  in  old  times.  I am  afraid  I used 
to  torment  you  when  I was  young  and  foolish.” 


358  BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 

“ Where  on  earth  can  Mellot  and  Mr.  Vavasour  he  ? ” asked 
Campbell. 

“ Oh,  never  mind ; Mr.  Mellot  has  gone  wandering  down  the 
glen  with  his  apparatus,  and  my  Elsley  has  gone  wandering 
after  him,  and  will  find  him  in  due  time,  with  his  head  in  a black 
bag,  and  a great  bull  just  going  to  charge  him  from  behind,  like 
that  hapless  man  in  ‘ Punch..’  I always  tell  Mr.  Mellot  that  will 
be  his  end.” 

Campbell  was  deeply  shocked  to  hear  the  light  tone  in  which 
she  talked  of  the  passionate  temper  of  a man  whom  she  so  surely 
loved.  How  many  outbursts  of  it  there  must  have  been ; how 
many  paroxysms  of  astonishment,  shame,  grief, — perhaps,  alas  ! 
counterbursts  of  anger — ere  that  heart  could  have  become  thus 
proof  against  the  ever-lowering  thunderstorm  ! 

“ Well,”  he  said,  “all  we  can  do  is  to  walk  down  to  the  car, 
and  let  them  follow ; and,  meanwhile,  I will  give  you  my 
wise  opinion  about  this  education  question,  whereof  I know 
nothing.” 

“ It  will  be  all  oracular  to  me,  for  I know  nothing  either ; 
and  she  put  her  arm  through  his,  and  walked  on. 

“ Did  you  hurt  yourself  then  ? I am  sure  you  are  in  pain.” 

“I?  Never  less  free  from  it,  with  many  thanks  to  you. 
What  made  you  think  so  1 ” 

“I  heard  you  breathe  so  hard,  and  quite  stamp  your  feet,  I 
thought.  I suppose  it  was  fancy.” 

It  was  not  fancy,  nevertheless.  Major  Campbell  was  stamping 
down  something ; and  succeeded  too  in  crushing  it. 

They  walked  on  toward  the  car,  Valencia  and  Headley  follow- 
ing them  : ere  they  arrived  at  the  place  where  they  were  to  meet 
it,  it  was  quite  dark  : but  what  was  more  important,  the  car  was 
not  there. 

“ The  stupid  man  must  have  mistaken  his  orders,  and  gone 
home.” 

“ Or  let  his  horse  go  home  of  itself,  while  he  was  asleep 
inside.  He  was  more  than  half  tipsy  when  we  started.” 

So  spoke  the  Major,  divining  the  exact  truth.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  walk  the  four  miles  home,  and  let  the 
two  truants  follow  as  they  could. 

“We  shall  have  plenty  of  time  for  our  educational  lecture,” 
said  Lucia. 

“ Plenty  of  time  to  waste,  then,  my  dear  lady.” 

“ Oh,  I never  talk  with  you  five  minutes — I do  not  know  why 
• — without  feeling  wiser  and  happier.  I envy  Valencia  for  having 
seen  so  much  of  you  of  late.” 

Little  thought  poor  Lucia,  as  she  spoke  those  innocent  words, 
that  within  four  yards  of  her,  crouched  behind  the  wall,  his  face 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE.  359 

and  every  limb  writhing  with  mingled  curiosity  and  rage,  was 
none  other  but  her  husband. 

He  had  given  place  to  the  devil  : and  the  devil  (for  the 
“ superstitious ” and  “old-world”  notion  which  attributes  such 
] frenzies  to  the  devil  has  not  yet  been  superseded  by  a better 
one)  had  entered  into  him,  and  concentrated  all  the  evil  habits 
and  passions  which  he  had  indulged  for  years  into  one  darning 
hell  within  him. 

Miserable  man  ! His  torments  were  sevenfold  : and  if  he  had 
sinned,  he  was  at  least  punished.  Hot  merely  by  all  which 
a husband  has  a right  to  feel  in  such  a case,  or  fancies  that  he 
has  a right ; not  merely  by  tortured  vanity  and  self-conceit,  by 
the  agony  of  seeing  any  man  preferred  to  him,  which  to  a man 
of  Elsley’s  character  was  of  itself  unbearable ; — not  merely  by 
the  loss  of  trust  in  one  whom  he  had  once  trusted  utterly  : — 
but,  over  and  above  all,  and  worst  of  all,  by  the  feeling  of 
shame,  self-reproach,  self-hatred,  which  haunts  a jealous  man, 
and  which  ought  to  haun*,  him ; for  few  men  lose  the  love  of 
women  who  have  once  loved  them,  save  by  their  own  folly  or 
baseness  : — by  the  recollection  that  he  had  traded  on  her  trust ; 
that  he  had  drugged  his  own  conscience  with  the  fancy  that 
she  must  love  him  always,  let  him  do  what  he  would  ; and  had 
neglected  and  insulted  her  affection,  because  he  fancied,  in  his 
conceit,  that  it  was  inalienable.  And  with  the  loss  of  self- 
respect,  came  recklessness  of  it,  and  drove  him  on,  as  it  has 
jealous  men  in  all  ages,  to  meannesses  unspeakable,  which  have 
made  them  for  centuries,  poor  wretches,  the  butts  of  worthless* 
play-wrights,  and  the  scorn  of  their  fellow-men. 

Elsley  had  wandered,  he  hardly  knew  how  or  whither,  for  his 
calling  to  Mellot  was  the  merest  blind, — stumbling  over  rocks, 
bruising  himself  against  tree-trunks,  to  this  wall.  He  knew 
they  must  pass  it.  He  waited  for  them,  and  had  his  reward. 
Blind  with  rage,  he  hardly  waited  for  the  sound  of  their  foot- 
steps to  die  away,  before  he  had  sprung  into  'the  road,  and 
hurried  up  in  the  opposite  direction, — any  where,  every  where, 
— to  escape  from  them,  and  from  self.  Whipt  by  the  furies, 
he  fled  along  the  road  and  up  the  vale,  he  cared  not  whither. 

And  what  were  Headley  and  Valencia,  who  of  necessity  had 
paired  off  together,  doing  all  the  while  h 

They  walked  on  silently  side  by  side  for  ten  minutes ; then 
Frank  said, — 

“I  have  been  impertinent,  Miss  St.  Just,  and  I beg  your 
pardon.” 

“Ho,  you  have  not,”  said  she,  quite  hastily.  “You  were 
right,  too  right, — has  it  not  been  proved  within  the  last  five 
minutes  ? My  poor  sister  J What  can  be  done  to  mend  Mr; 


360 


BOTH  SIDES  OP  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


Vavasour’s  temper?  I wish  you  could  talk  to  him,  Mr. 
Headley.” 

“He  is  beyond  my  art.  His  age,  and  his  talents,  and  his 
— his  consciousness  of  them,”  said  Frank,  using  the  mildest 
term  he  could  find,  “ would  prevent  so  insignificant  a person  as 
me  having  any  influence.  But  what  I cannot  do,  God’s  grace 
may.” 

“ Can  it  change  a man’s  character,  Mr.  Headley  ? It  may 
make  good  men  better — but  can  it  cure  temper  ? ” 

“Major  Campbell  must  have  told  you  that  it  can  do  any- 
thing.” 

“ Ah,  yes  : with  men  as  wise,  and  strong,  and  noble  as  he  is  ; 
but  with  such  a weak,  vain  man — ” 

“ Miss  St.  Just,  I know  one  who  is  neither  wise,  nor  strong, 
nor  noble  : but  as  weak  and  vain  as  any  man ; in  whom  God 
lias  conquered — as  He  may  conquer  yet  in  Mr.  Vavasour — all 
which  makes  man  cling  to  life.” 

“What,  all?”  asked  she,  suspecting,  and  not  wrongly,  that 
he  spoke  of  himself. 

“ All,  I suppose,  which  it  is  good  for  them  to  have  crushed. 
There  are  feelings  which  last  on,  in  spite  of  all  struggles  to 
quench  them — I suppose,  because  they  ought  to  last ; because, 
while  they  torture,  they  still  ennoble.  Death  will  quench 
them  : or  if  not,  satisfy  them  : or  if  not,  set  them  at  rest 
somehow.” 

“Death?  ” answered  she,  in  a startled  tone. 

“Yes.  Our  friend,  Major  Campbell’s  friend,  Death.  We 
have  been  seeing  a good  deal  of  him  together  lately,  and  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  is  the  most  useful,  pleasant,  and 
instructive  of  all  friends.” 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Headley,  do  not  speak  so  ! Are  you  in  earnest  ? ” 

“ So  much  in  earnest,  that  I have  resolved  to  go  out  as  an 
army  chaplain,  to  see  in  the  war  somewhat  more  of  my  new 
friend.” 

“Impossible!  Mr.  Headley;  it  will  kill  you! — All  that 
horrible  fever  and  cholera  ! ” 

“And  what  possible  harm  can  it  do  me,  if  it  does  kill  me, 
Miss  St.  Just  ! ” 

“ Mr.  Headley,  this  is  madness  ! I — we  cannot  allow  you 
to  throw  away  > your  life  thus — so  young,  and — and  such  pros- 
pects before  you  ! And  there  is  nothing  that  my  brother  would 
not  do  for  you,  were  it  only  for  your  heroism  at  Aberalva. 
There  is  not  one  of  the  family  who  does  not  love  and  respect 
you,  and  long  to  see  all  the  world  appreciating  you  as  we  do ; 
and  your  poor  mother—” 

“ I have  told  my  mother  all,  Miss  St.  Just,  And  she  has 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


361 


said,  ‘ Go  ; it  is  your  only  hope.’  She  has  other  sons  to  com- 
fort her.  Let  us  say  no  more  of  it.  Had  I thought  that  you 
■would  have  disapproved  of  it,  I would  never  have  mentioned 
the  thing.7 7 

“Disapprove  of — your  going  to  die?  You  shall  not!  And 
for  me,  too  : for  I guess  all — all  is  my  fault ! 7 

“ All  is  mine,”  said  he  quietly  : “ who  was  fool  enough  to 
fancy  that  I could  forget  you — conquer  my  love  for  you;”  and 
at  these  words  his  whole  voice  and  manner  changed  in  an 
instant  into  wildest  passion.  “ I must  speak — now  and  never 
more — I love  you  still,  fool  that  I am  ! Would  God  I had 
never  seen  you ! Ho,  not  that.  Thank  God  for  that  to  the 
last : but  would  God  I had  died  of  that  cholera ! that  I had 
never  come  here,  conceited  fool  that  I was,  fancying  that  it  was 
.possible,  after  having  once — Ho ! Let  me  go,  go  any  where, 
where  I may  burden  you  no  more  with  my  absurd  dreams  ! — 
You,  who  have  had  the  same  thing  said  to  you,  and  in  finer 
words,  a hundred  times,  by  men  who  would  not  deign  to  speak 
to  me  ! 77  and  covering  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  strode  on,  as  if 
to  escape. 

“ I never  had  the  same  thing  said  to  me  ! 77 

“ Hever  ? How  often  have  fine  gentlemen,  noblemen,  sworn 
that  they  were  dying  for  you?” 

“ They  never  have  said  to  me  what  you  have  done.77 

“ Ho — I am  clumsy,  I suppose — 77 

“ Mr.  Headley,  indeed  you  are  unjust  to  yourself — unjust  to 
me  ! ' 

“ I — to  you  ? Hever ! I know  you  better  than  you  know 
yourself — see  in  you  what  no  one  else  sees.  Oh,  what  fools 
they  are  who  say  that  love  is  blind  ! Blind  ? He  sees  souls 
with  God’s  own  light ; not  as  they  have  become  : but  as  they 
ought  to  become — can  become — are  already  in  the  sight  of  Him 
who  made  them !” 

“And  what  might  I become?77  asked  she,  half-frightened  by 
the  new  earnestness  of  his  utterance. 

“ How  can  I tell  ? Something  infinitely  too  high  for  me,  at 
least,  who  even  now  am  not  worthy  to  kiss  the  dust  off  your  feet.77 

“ Oh,  do  not  speak  so  : little  do  you  know — ! Ho,  Mr. 
Headley,  it  is  you  who  are  too  good  for  me ; too  noble,  single- 
eyed,  self-sacrificing,  to  endure  my  vanity  and  meanness  for  a 
day.” 

“ Madam,  do  not  speak  thus  ! Give  me  no  word  which  my 
folly  can  distort  into  a ray  of  hope,  unless  you  wish  to  drive  me 
mad.  Ho  ! it  is  impossible  ; and,  were  it  possible,  what  but  ruin 
to  my  soul  ? I should  live  for  you,  and  not  for  my  work.  I 
should  become  a schemer,  ambitious,  intriguing,  in  the  vain  hope 


362 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


of  proving  myself  to  the  world  worthy  of  yon.  Ho ; let  it  be. 
‘ Let  the  dead  bnry  their  dead,  and  follow  thou  me.’  ” 

She  made  no  answer — what  answer  was  there  to  make  ? And 
he  strode  on  by  her  side  in  silence  for  full  ten  minutes.  At  last 
she  was  forced  to  speak. 

“ Mr.  Headley,  recollect  that  this  conversation  has  gone  too 
far  for  us  to  avoid  coming  to  some  definite  understanding — ” 
“Then  it  shall,  Miss  St.  Just.  Then  it  shall,  once  and  for 
all : formally  and  deliberately,  it  shall  end  now.  Suppose, — I 
only  say  suppose, — that  I could,  without  failing  in  my  own 
honour,  my  duty  to  my  calling,  make  myself  such  a name  among 
good  men  that,  poor  parson  though  I be,  your  family  need  be 
ashamed  of  nothing  about  me,  save  my  poverty  ? Tell  me,  now 
and  for  ever,  could  it  be  possible — ” 

He  stopped.  She  walked  on,  silent,  in  her  turn. 

“ Say  no,  as  a matter  of  course,  and  end  it ! ” said  he,  bitterly 
She  drew  a long  breath,  as  if  heaving  off  a weight. 

“ I cannot — dare  not  say  it.” 

“ It  ? "Which  of  the  two  ? yes,  or  no  ?” 

She  was  silent. 

He  stopped,  and  spoke  calmly  and  slowly.  “ Say  that  again, 
and  tell  me  that  I am  not  dreaming.  You?  the  admired  ! the 
worshipped  ! the  luxurious  ! — and  no  blame  to  you  that  you  are 
what  you  were  born — could  you  endure  a little  parsonage,  the 
teaching  village  school-children,  tending  dirty  old  women,  and 
petty  cares  the  whole  year  round  ?” 

“ Mr.  Headley,”  answered  she,  slowly  and  calmly,  in  her  turn, 
“I  could  endure  a cottage, — a prison,  I fancy,  at  moments, — to 
escape  from  this  world,  of  which  I am  tired,  which  will  soon  be 
tired  of  me  ; from  women  who  envy  me,  impute  to  me  ambitions 
as  base  as  their  own  ; from  men  who  admire — not  me,  for  they 
do  not  know  me,  and  never  will — but  what  in  me — I hate  them  ! 
• — will  give  them  pleasure.  I hate  it  all,  despise  it  all ; despise 
myself  for  it  all  every  morning  when  I wake  ! What  does  it  do 
for  me,  but  rouse  in  me  the  very  parts  of  my  own  character 
which  are  most  despicable,  most  tormenting?  If  it  goes  on,  I 
feel  I could  become  as  frivolous,  as  mean,  aye,  as  wicked  as  the 
worst.  You  do  not  know — you  do  not  know — . I have  envied 
the  nuns  their  convents.  I have  envied  Selkirk  his  desert 
island.  I envy  now  the  milkmaids  there  below  : anything  to 
escape  and  be  in  earnest,  anything  for  some  one  to  teach  me  to 
be  of  use  ! Yes,  this  cholera — and  this  war — though  only,  only 
its  coming  shadow  has  passed  over  me, — and  your  words  too  ” — 
cried  she,  and  stopped  and  hesitated,  as  if  afraid  to  tell  too 
much — “they  have  wakened  me — to  a new  life — at  least  to  the 
dream  of  a new  life  !” 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE.  363 

“ Have  you  not  Major  Campbell  ?”  said  Headley,  with  a terrible 
effort  of  will. 

“ Yes — but  has  lie  tauglit  me  ? He  is  dear,  and  good,  and 
wise ; but  be  is  too  wise,  too  great  for  me.  He  plays  with  me  as 
a lion  might  with  a mouse  ; be  is  like  a grand  angel  far  above  in 
another  planet,  who  can  pity  and  advise,  but  who  cannot — What 
am  I saying  ?”  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her  band. 

She  dropped  her  glove  as  she  did  so.  Headley  picked  it  up 
and  gave  it  to  her  : as  be  did  so  their  bands  met ; and  their 
bands  did  not  part  again. 

“ You  know  that  I love  you,  Valencia  St.  Just.” 

“ Too  well ! too  well !” 

“ But  you  know,  too,  that  you  do  not  love  me.” 

“ Who  told  you  so  ? What  do  you  know  ? What  do  I know  ? 
Only  that  I long  for  some  one  to  make  me — to  make  me  as  good 
as  you  are  ! ” And  she  burst  into  tears. 

“ Valencia,  will  you  trust  me?” 

“ Yes  ! ” cried  she,  looking  up  at  him  suddenly  : u if  you  will 
not  go  to  the  war.” 

“ No — no — no  ! Would  you  have  me  turn  traitor  and  coward 
to  God  ; and  now,  of  all  moments  in  my  life  V ’ 

“Hoble  creature!”  said  she;  “ you  will  make  me  love  you 
whether  I wish  or  not.” 

What  was  it,  after  all,  by  which  Frank  Headley  won  Valencia’s 
love  ? I cannot  tell.  Can  you  tell,  Sir,  how  you  won  the  love 
of  your  wife?  As  little  as  you  can  tell  of  that  still  greater 
miracle — how  you  have  kept  her  love  since  she  found  out  what 
manner  of  man  you  were. 

So  they  paced  homeward,  hand  in  hand,  beside  the  shining 
ripples,  along  the  Dinas  shore.  The  birches  breathed  fragrance 
on  them  ; the  night-hawk  churred  softly  round  their  path  ; the 
stately  mountains  smiled  above  them  in  the  moonlight,  and 
seemed  to  keep  watch  and  ward  over  their  love,  and  to  shut  out 
the  noisy  world,  and  the  harsh  babble  and  vain  fashions  of  the 
town.  The  summer  lightning  flickered  to  the  westward;  but 
round  them  the  rich  soft  night  seemed  full  of  love, — as  full  of 
love  as  their  own  hearts  were,  and,  like  them,  brooding  silently 
upon  its  joy.  At  last  the  walk  was  over ; the  kind  moon  sank 
low  behind  the  hills  ; and  the  darkness  hid  their  blushes  as  they 
paced  into  the  sleeping  village,  and  their  hands  parted  unwillingly 
at  last. 

When  they  came  into  the  hall,  through  the  group  of  lounging 
gownsmen  and  tourists,  they  found  Bowie  arguing  with  Mrs. 
Lewis,  in  his  dogmatic  Scotch  way, — 

“ So  ye  see,  Madam,  there’s  no  use  defending  the  drunken  loon 
any  more  at  all ; and  here  will  my  leddies  have  just  walked  their 


364: 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


bonny  legs  off,  all  through  that  carnal  sin  of  drunkenness,  which 
is  the  curse  of  your  Welsh  population.” 

“And  not  quite  unknown  north  of  Tweed  either,  Bowie/ ’ 
said  Valencia,  laughing.  “ There  now,  say  no  more  about  it. 
We  have  had  a delightful  walk,  and  nobody  is  the  least  tired. 
Don’t  say  any  more,  Mrs.  Lewis  : but  tell  them  to  get  us  some 
supper.  Bowie,  so  my  Lord  has  come  in  ? ” 

“ This  half-hour  good  ! ” 

“ Has  he  had  any  sport?” 

“ Sport ! aye,  troth ! Live  fish  in  the  day.  That’s  a river 
indeed  at  Bettws  ! Hot  a pawky  wee  burn,  like  this  Aberglaslyn 
thing.” 

“ Only  five  fish  ?”  said  Valencia,  in  a frightened  tone. 

“ Fish,  my  leddy,  not  trouts,  I said.  I thought  ye  knew 
better  than  that  by  this  time.” 

“Oh,  salmon?”  cried  Valencia,  relieved.  “Delightful.  I’ll 
go  to  him  this  moment.” 

And  upstairs  to  Scoutbush’s  room  she  went. 

He  was  sitting  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  sipping  his 
claret,  and  fondling  his  fly-book  (the  only  one  he  ever  studied 
con  amove),  with  a most  complacent  face.  She  came  in  and 
stood  demurely  before  him,  holding  her  broad  hat  in  both  hands 
before  her  knees,  like  a school-girl,  her  face  half-hidden  in  the 
black  curls.  Scoutbush  looked  up  and  smiled  affectionately,  as 
he  caught  the  light  of  her  eyes  and  the  arch  play  of  her  lips. 

“ Ah  ! there  you  are,  at  a pretty  time  of  night ! How 
beautiful  you  look,  Val ! I wish  my  wife  may  be  half  as 
pretty  ! ” 

Valencia  made  him  a prim  curtsey. 

“ I am  delighted  to  hear  of  my  Lord’s  good  sport.  He  will 
choose  to  be  in  a good  humour,  I suppose.” 

“ Good  humour  ? ga  va  sans  dire  ! Three  stone  of  fish  in 
three  hours  !” 

“ Then  his  little  sister  is  going  to  do  a very  foolish  thing,  and 
wants  his  leave  to  do  it ; which  if  he  will  grant,  she  will  let  him 
do  as  many  foolish  things  as  he  likes  without  scolding  him,  as 
long  as  they  both  shall  live.” 

“Do  it  then,  I beg.  What  is  it?  Do  you  want  to  go  up 
Snowdon  with  Headley  to-morrow,  to  see  the  sun  rise  ? You’ll 
kill  yourself ! ” 

“ Ho,”  said  Valencia  very  quietly ; “ I only  want  to  marry 
him.” 

“ Marry  him  ! ” cried  Scoutbush,  starting  up. 

“ Don’t  try  to  look  majestic,  my  dear  little  brother,  for  you 
are  really  not  tall  enough ; as  it  is,  you  have  only  hooked  all 
your  flies  into  your  dressing-gown.” 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


365 


Scoutbush  dashed  himself  down  into  his  chair  again. 

44  I’ll  "be  shot  if  yon  shall ! ” 

“You  may  he  shot  just  as  surely,  whether  I do  or  not,”  said 
she  softly;  and  she  knelt  down  before  him,  and  put  her  arms 
round  him,  and  laid  her  head  upon  his  lap.  “ There,  you  can’t 
run  away  now ; so  you  must  hear  me  quietly.  And  you  know 
it  may  not  he  often  that  we  shall  be  together  again  thus ; and. 
oh,  Scoutbush  ! brother  ! if  anything  was  to  happen  to  you — I 
omy  say  if — in  this  horrid  war,  you  would  not  like  to  think  that 
you  had  refused  the  last  thing  your  little  Yal  asked  for,  and  that 
she  was  miserable  and  lonely  at  home.” 

44  I’ll  be  shot  if  you  shall ! ” was  all  the  poor  Yiscount  could 
get  out. 

44  Yes,  miserable  and  lonely  : you  gone  away,  and  mon  Saint 
Pere  too  : and  Lucia,  she  has  her  children. — and  I am  so  wild 
and  weak — I must  have  some  one  to  guide  me  and  protect  me — 
indeed  I must ! ” 

4 4 Why,  that  was  what  I always  said  ! That  was  why  I 
wanted  you  so  to  marry  this  season  ! Why  did  not  you  take 
Chalkclere,  or  half-a-dozen  good  matches  who  were  dying  for 
you,  and  not  this  confounded  black  parson,  of  all  birds  in  the 
air  % ” 

44 1 did  not  take  Lord  Chalkclere  for  the  very  reason  that  I do 
take  Mr.  Headley.  I want  a husband  who  will  guide  me,  not 
one  whom  I must  guide.” 

*f  Guide  h ” said  Scoutbush  bitterly,  with  one  of  those  little? 
sparks  of  practical  shrewdness  which  sometimes  fell  from  him. 
44  Aye,  I see  how  it  is ! These  intriguing  rascals  of  parsons — 
they  begin  as  father  confessors,  like  so  many  popish  priests  ; 
and  one  fine  morning  they  blossom  out  into  lovers,  and  so  they 
get  all  the  pretty  women,  and  all  the  good  fortunes, — the  sneak- 
ing, ambitious,  low-bred — ” 

44  He  is  neither  ! You  are  unjust.  Scoutbush ! ” cried  Yalencia, 
looking  up.  44  He  is  the  very  soul  of  honour.  He  might  be  rich 
now,  and  have  had  a fine  living,  if  he  had  not  been  too  con- 
scientious to  let  his  uncle  buy  him  one ; and  that  offended  his 
uncle,  and  he  would  allow  him  nothing.  And  as  for  being  low- 
bred, he  is  a gentleman,  as  you  know ; and  if  his  uncle  be  in 
business,  his  mother  is  a lady,  and  he  will  be  well  enough  off 
one  day.” 

44  You  seem  to  know  a great  deal  about  his  affairs.” 

44  H6  told  me  all,  months  ago — before  there  was  any  dream  of 
this.  And,  my  dear,”  she  went  on,  relapsing  into  her  usual  arch 
tone,  44  there  is  no  fear  but  his  uncle  will  be  glad  enough  to 
patronise  him  again,  when  he  finds  that  he  has  married  a vis- 
count’s sister.” 


366 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


Scoutbush  laughed.  “ You  scheming  little  Irish  rogue  ! But 
I won’t  ! I’ve  said  it,  and  I won’t.  It’s  enough  to  have  one 
sister  married  to  a poor  poet,  without  having  another  married  to 
a poor  parson.  Oh ! what  have  I done  that  I should  he  bothered 
in  this  way  ? Isn’t  it  had  enough  to  he  a landlord,  and  to  have 
an  estate,  and  he  responsible  for  a lot  of  people  that  will  die  of 
the  cholera,  and  have  to  vote  in  the  house  about  a lot  of  things 
I don’t  understand,  nor  anybody  else,  I believe,  hut  that,  over 
and  above,  I must  he  the  head  of  the  family,  and  answerable  to 
all  the  world  for  whom  my  mad  sisters  marry  ? I won’t,  I say  ! ” 

“ Then  I shall  just  go  and  marry  without  your  leave  ! I’m  of 
age,  you  know,  and  my  fortune’s  my  own ; and  then  we  shall 
come  in  as  the  runaway  couples  do  in  a play,  while  you  sit  there 
in  your  dressing-gown  as  the  stem  father — Won’t  you  borrow  a 
white  wig  for  the  occasion,  my  Lord  ? — And  we  shall  fall  down  on 
our  knees  so,” — and  she  put  herself  in  the  prettiest  attitude  in 
che  world, — “ and  beg  your  blessing — please  forgive  us  this  time, 
and  we’ll  never  do  so  any  more  ! And  then  you  will  turn  your 
face  away,  like  the  baron  in  the  ballad, — 

‘ And  brushed  away  the  springing  tear 
He  proudly  strove  to  hide,  ’ 

Et  cetera,  et  cetera — Finish  the  scene  for  yourself,  with  a — 
1 Bless  ye,  my  children  ; bless  ye  ! ’ ” 

“ Go  along,  and  marry  the  cat  if  you  like!  You  are  mad;  and 
I am  mad;  and  all  the  world’s  mad,  I think.” 

“ There,”  she  said,  “ I knew  that  he  would  he  a good  hoy  at 
last ! ” And  she  sprang  up,  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and,  to  his  great  astonishment,  hurst  into  the  most  violent  lit  of 
crying. 

“ Good  gracious,  Valencia  ! do  he  reasonable  ! You’ll  go  into 
a fit,  or  somebody  will  hear  you  ! You  know  how  I hate  a scene. 
Do  be  good,  there’s  a darling!  Why  didn’t  you  tell  me  at  first 
how  much  you  wished  for  it,  and  I would  have  said  yes  in  a 
moment.” 

“ Because  I didn’t  know  myself,”  cried  she  passionately. 
“ There,  I will  be  good,  and  love  you  better  than  all  the  world, 
except  one.  And  if  you  let  those  horrid  Russians  hurt  you, 
I will  hate  you  as  long  as  I live,  and  be  miserable  all  my  life 
afterwards.” 

“ Why,  Valencia,  do  you  know,  that  sounds  very  like  a bull?” 

" Am  I not  a wild  Irish  girl  ? ” said  she,  and  hurried  out, 
leaving  Scoutbush  to  return  to  his  flies. 

She  bounded  into  Lucia’s  room,  there  to  pour  out  a bursting 
heart — and  stopped  short. 

Lucia  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  her  shawl  and  bonnet  tossed 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE.  367 

upon  the  floor,  her  head  sunk  on  her  bosom,  her  arms  sunk  by 
her  side. 

“ Lucia,  what  is  it  ? Speak  to  me,  Lucia  !” 

She  pointed  faintly  to  a letter  on  the  floor — Valencia  caught 
it  up — Lucia  made  a gesture  as  if  to  stop  her. 

“ No,  you  must  not  read  it.  Too  dreadful ! ” 

But  Valencia  read  it ; while  Lucia  covered  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  uttered  a long,  low,  shuddering  moan  of  bitter  agony. 

Valencia  read,  with  flashing  eyes  and  bursting  brow.  It  was 
a hideous  letter.  The  words  of  a man  trying  to  supply  the 
place  of  strength  by  virulence.  A hideous  letter,  unfit  to  be 
written  here. 

“ Valencia  ! Valencia  ! It  is  false — a mistake — he  is  dream- 
ing. You  know  it  is  false  ! You  will  not  leave  me  too  ? ” 
Valencia  dashed  it  on  the  ground,  clasped  her  sister  in  hex 
arms,  and  covered  her  head  with  kisses. 

“My  Lucia  ! My  own  sweet  good  sister  ! Base,  cowardly,” 
sobbed  she,  in  her  rage ; while  Lucia’s  agony  began  to  find  a 
vent  in  words,  and  she  moaned  on — 

“What  have  I done?  All  that  flower,  that  horrid  flower: 
but  who  would  have  dreamed — and  Major  Campbell,  too,  of  all 
men  upon  earth?  Valencia,  it  is  some  horrid  delusion  of  the 
devil.  Why,  he  was  there  all  the  while — and  you  too.  Could 
he  think  that  I should  before  his  very  face?  What  must  he 
fancy  me  ? Oh,  it  is  a delusion  of  the  devil,  and  nothing 
else  ! ” 

“ He  is  a wretch  1 I will  take  the  letter  to  my  brother ; he 
shall  right  you  ! ” 

“ Ah  no  ! no  ! never ! Let  me  tear  it  to  atoms — hide  it ! It 
is  all  a mistake  ! He  did  not  mean  it ! He  will  recollect  him- 
self to-morrow  and  come  back.” 

“ Let  him  come  back  if  he  dare ! ” cried  Valencia,  in  a tone 
which  said,  “ I could  kill  him  with  my  own  hands  ! ” 

“ Oh,  he  will  come  back  ! He  cannot  have  the  heart  to  leave 
his  poor  little  Lucia.  Oh,  cruel,  cowardly,  not  to  have  said  one 
word — not  one  word  to  explain  all — but  it  was  all  my  fault,  my 
wicked,  odious  temper ; and  after  I had  seen  how  vexed  he  was, 
too  ! — Oh,  Elsley,  Eisley,  come  back,  only  come  back,  and  I will 
beg  your  pardon  on  my  knees  ! any  thing  ! Scold  me,  beat  me, 
if  you  will ! I deserve  it  all ! Only  come  back,  and  let  me  see 
your  face,  and  hear  your  voice,  instead  of  leaving  me  here  all 
alone,  and  the  poor  children  too  ! Oh,  what  shall  I say  to  them 
to-morrow,  when  they  wake  and  find  no  father  ? ” 

Valencia’s  indignation  had  no  words.  She  could  only  sit  on 
the  bed,  with  Lucia  in  her  arms,  looking  defiance  at  all  the 
world  above  that  fair  head  which  one  moment  dropped  on  her 


368 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


bosom,  and  the  next  gazed  np  into  her  face  in  pitiful  child-like 
pleading. 

“ Oh,  if  I but  knew  where  he  was  gone  ! If  I could  but  find 
him  ! One  word — one  word  would  set  all  right  ! It  always 
did,  Yalentia,  always ! He  was  so  kind,  so  dear  in  a moment, 
when  I put  away  my  naughty,  naughty  temper,  and  smiled  in 
his  face  like  a good  wife.  Wicked  creature  that  I was  ! and  this 
is  my  punishment.  Oh,  Elsley,  one  word,  one  word  ! I must 
find  him  if  I went  barefoot  over  the  mountains — I must  go, 
I must — ” 

And  she  tried  to  rise  : but  Valencia  held  her  down,  while  she 
entreated  piteously — 

“ I will  go,  and  see  about  finding  him  ! ” she  said  at  last,  as 
her  only  resource.  “ Promise  me  to  be  quiet  here,  and  I will.” 

“ Quiet  ? Yes  ! quiet  here  ! ” and  she  threw  herself  upon  her 
face  on  the  floor. 

She  looked  up  eagerly.  “ You  will  not  tell  Scoutbush  ? ” 

“ Why  not '?  ” 

“ He  is  so — so  hasty.  He  will  kill  him  ! Valencia,  he  will 
kill  him  ! Promise  me  not  to  tell  him,  or  I shall  go  mad  ! ” 
And  she  sat  up  again,  pressing  her  hands  upon  her  head,  and 
rocking  from  side  to  side. 

“ Oh,  Valencia,  if  I dared  only  scream  ! but  keeping  it  in  kills 
me.  It  is  like  a sword  through  my  brain  now  ! ” 

“ Let  me  call  Clara.” 

“ Ho,  no  ! not  Clara.  Do  not  tell  her.  I will  be  quiet ; 
indeed  I will ; only  come  back  soon,  soon  : for  I am  all  alone, 
alone  ! ” And  she  threw  herself  down  again  upon  her  face. 

Valencia  went  out.  Certain  as  she  was  of  her  sister’s  inno- 
cence, there  was  one  terrible  question  in  her  heart  which  must- 
be  answered,  or  her  belief  in  all  truth,  goodness,  religion,  would 
reel  and  rock  to  its  very  foundations.  And  till  she  had  an 
answer  to  that,  she  could  not  sit  still  by  Lucia. 

She  walked  hurriedly,  with  compressed  lips,  but  quivering 
limbs,  down  stairs,  and  into  the  sitting-room.  Scoutbush  was 
gone  to  bed.  Campbell  and  Mellot  sat  chatting  still. 

“Where  is  my  brother?  ” 

“ Gone  to  bed,  as  some  one  else  ought  to  be ; for  it  is  past 
twelve.  Is  Vavasour  come  in  yet  ?” 

“Ho.” 

“Very  odd,”  said  Claude;  “I  never  saw  him  after  I left 
you.” 

“ He  said  certainly  that  he  was  going  to  find  you,”  said 
Campbell. 

“There  is  no  need  for  speculating,”  said  Valencia  quietly; 
"my  sister  has  a note  from  Mr.  Vavasour  at  Pen-y-gwryd.” 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


369 


“ Pen-y-gwryd  1 ” cried  both,  men  at  once. 

“ Yes.  Major  Campbell,  I wish  to  show  it  to  you.” 

Valencia’s  tone  and  manner  was  significant  enough  to  make 
Claude  Mellot  bid  them  both  good-night. 

When  he  had  shut  the  door  behind  him,  Valencia  put  the 
letter  into  the  Major’s  hand. 

He  was  too  much  absorbed  in  it  to  look  up  at  her ; but  if  he 
had  done  so,  he  would  have  been  startled  by  the  fearful  capacity 
of  passion  which  changed,  for  the  moment,  that  gay  Queen 
Whims  into  a terrible  Eoxana,  as  she  stood,  leaning  against  the 
mantel-piece,  but  drawn  up  to  her  full  height,  her  lips  tight 
shut,  eyes  which  gazed  through  and  through  him  in  awful 
scrutiny,  holding  her  very  breath,  while  a nervous  clutching  of 
the  little  hand  said,  “ If  you  have  tampered  with  my  sister’s 
heart,  better  for  you  that  you  were  dead  ! ” 

He  read  it  through,  once,  twice,  with  livid  face ; then  dashed 
it  on  the  floor. 

“Fool ! — cur  ! — liar  ! — she  is  as  pure  as  God’s  sunlight.” 

“ You  need  not  tell  me  that,”  said  Valencia,  through  her  closed 
teeth. 

“Fool ! — fool ! ” And  then,  in  a moment,  his  voice  changed 
from  indignation  to  the  bitterest  self-reproach.  “And  fool  I ; 
thrice  fool ! Who  am  I,  to  rail  on  him  ? Oh  God  ! what  have 
I done  h ” And  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

“ What  have  you  done  ” literally  shrieked  Valencia. 

“ Nothing  that  you  or  man  can  blame,  Miss  St.  Just ! Can 
you  dream  that,  sinful  as  I am,  I could  ever  harbour  a thought 
toward  her  of  which  I should  be  ashamed  before  the  angels  of 
God  1 ” 

He  looked  up  as  he  spoke,  with  an  utter  humility  and  an 
intense  honesty,  which  unnerved  her  at  once. 

“Oh,  my  Saint  Pere  !”  and  she  held  out  both  her  hands. 
“ Forgive  me,  if — only  for  a moment — ” 

“ I am  not  your  Saint  Pere,  nor  any  one’s ! I am  a poor, 
weak,  conceited,  miserable  man,  who  by  his  accursed  imperti- 
nence has  broken  the  heart  of  the  being  whom  he  loves  best  on 
earth.” 

Valencia  started : but  ere  she  could  ask  for  an  explanation,  he 
rejoined  wildly — 

“How  is  she  ] Tell  me  only  that,  this  once  ! Has  it  killed 
her  1 Hoes  she  hate  him  h ” 

“ Adores  him  more  than  ever.  Oh,  Major  Campbell ! it  is 
too  piteous,  too  piteous.” 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  shuddering.  “Thank 
God  ! yes,  thank  God  ! So  it  should  be.  Let  her  love  him  to 
the  last,  and  win  her  martyr’s  crown ! Now,  Valencia  St.  Just? 


370  BOTH  SIDES  OP  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 

sit  down,  if  but  for  five  minutes ; and  listen,  once  for  all,  to  the 
last  words,  perhaps,  you  will  ever  hear  me  speak;  unless  she 
wants  you  ? — ” 

“ No,  no  ! Tell  me  all,  Saint  Pere  ! ” said  Valencia,  “ for  I 
am  walking  in  a dream — a double  dream  ! ” as  the  new  thought 
of  Headley,  and  that  walk,  came  over  her.  “Tell  me  all  at 
once,  while  I have  wits  left  to  comprehend.” 

“ Miss  St.  Just,”  said  he,  in  a clear  calm  voice.  “ It  is  fit,  for 
her  honour  and  for  mine,  that  you  should  know  all.  The  first 
day  that  I ever  saw  your  sister,  I loved  her ; as  a man  loves  who 
can  never  cease  to  love,  or  love  a second  time.  I was  a raw, 
awkward  Scotchman  then,  and  she  used  to  laugh  at  me.  Why 
not  ? I kept  my  secret,  and  determined  to  become  a man  at 
whom  no  one  would  wish  to  laugh.  I was  in  the  Company’s 
service  then.  You  recollect  her  jesting  once  about  the  Indian 
army,  and  my  commanding  black  people,  and  saying  that  the 
Line  only  was  fit  for — some  girl’s  jest?  ” 

“ No ; I recollect  nothing  of  it.” 

“ I never  forgot  it.  I threw  up  all  my  prospects,  and  went  into 
the  Line.  Whether  I won  honour  there  or  not,  I need  not  tell 
you.  I came  back  to  England  years  after,  not  unworthy,  as  I 
fancied,  to  look  your  sister  in  the  face  as  an  equal.  I found  her 
married.” 

He  paused  a little,  and  then  went  on,  in  a quiet,  business-like 
tone. 

“ Good.  Her  choice  was  sure  to  be  a worthy  one,  and  that 
was  enough  for  me.  You  need  not  doubt  that  I kept  my  secret 
then  more  sacredly  than.  ever.  I returned  to  India,  and  tried  to 
die..  I dared  not  kill  myself,  for  I was  a soldier  and  a Christian, 
and  belonged  to  God  and  my  Queen.  The  Sikhs  would  not  kill 
me,  do  what  I would  to  help  them.  Then  I threw  myself  into 
science,  that  I might  stifle  passion ; and  I stifled  it.  I fancied 
myself  cured,  and  I was  cured  ; and  I returned  to  England  again. 
I loved  your  brother  for  her  sake ; I loved  you  at  first  for  her 
sake,  then  for  your  own.  But  I presumed  upon  my  cure;  I 
accepted  your  brother’s  invitation ; I caught  at  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  her  again — happy — as  I fancied;  and  of  proving  to 
myself  my  own  soundness.  I considered  myself  a sort  of  Mel- 
chisedek,  neither  young  nor  old,  without  passions,  without  pur- 
pose on  earth — a fakeer  who  had  licence  to  do  and  to  dare  what 
others  might  not.  But  I kept  my  secret  proudly  inviolate.  I do 
not  believe  at  this  moment  she  dreams  that — Do  you  ? ” 

“ She  does  not.” 

“ Thank  God  ! I was  a most  conceited  fool,  puffed  up  with 
spiritual  pride,  tempting  God  needlessly.  I went,  I saw  her. 
Heaven  is  my  witness,  that  as  far  as  passion  goes,  my  heart  is  as 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MOON  AT  ONCE. 


371 


pure  as  yours  : but  I found  that  I still  cared  more  for  her  than 
for  any  being  on  earth  : and  I found  too  the  sort  of  man  upon 
whom — God  forgive  me ! I must  not  talk  of  that — I despised 
him,  hated  him,  pretended  to  teach  him  his  duty,  by  behaving 
better  to  her  than  he  did — the  spiritual  coxcomb  that  I was ! 
What  business  had  I with  it  ? Why  not  have  left  all  to  God 
and  her  good  sense  ? The  devil  tempted  me  to-day,  in  the  shape 
of  an  angel  of  courtesy  and  chivalry;  and  here  the  end  is  come. 
I must  find  that  man,  Miss  St.  Just,  if  I travel  the  world  in 
search  of  him.  I must  ask  his  pardon  frankly,  humbly,  for  my 
impertinence.  Perhaps  so  I may  bring  him  back  to  her,  and  not 
die  with  a curse  on  my  head  for  having  parted  those  whom  God 
has  joined.  And  then  to  the  old  fighting-trade  once  more — the 
only  one,  I believe,  I really  understand;  and  see  whether  a 
Russian  bullet  will  not  fly  straighter  than  a clumsy  Sikh’s.” 
Yalencia  listened,  awe-stricken;  and  all  the  more  so  because 
this  was  spoken  in  a calm,  half-abstracted  voice,  without  a note 
of  feeling,  save  where  he  alluded  to  his  own  mistakes.  When  it 
was  over,  she  rose  without  a word,  and  took  both  his  hands  in 
her  own,  sobbing  bitterly. 

“ You  forgive  me,  then,  all  the  misery  which  I have  caused  h ” 
“ Do  not  talk  so  ! Only  forgive  me  having  fancied  for  one 
moment  that  you  were  anything  but  what  you  are,  an  angel  out 
of  heaven.” 

Campbell  hung  down  his  head. 

“ Angel,  truly  ! Azrael,  the  angel  of  death,  then.  Go  to  her 
now — go,  and  leave  a humbled  penitent  man  alone  with  God.” 

“ Oh,  my  Saint  Pere  ! ” cried  she,  bursting  into  tears.  “ This 
is  too  wretched — all  a horrid  dream — and  when,  too — when  I 
had  been  counting  on  telling  you  something  so  different ! — I 
cannot  now,  I have  not  the  heart.” 

“ What,  more  misery  h ” 

“ Oh  no  ! no  ! no  ! You  will  know  all  to-morrow.  Ask 
Scoutbush.” 

“ I shall  be  gone  in  search  of  that  man  long  before  Scoutbush 
is  awake.” 

“ Impossible  ! you  do  not  know  whither  he  is  gone.” 

“ If  1 employ  every  detective  in  Bow  Street,  I will  find  him.” 
“Wait,  only  wait,  till  the  post  comes  in  to-morrow.  He  will 
surely  write,  if  not  to  her, — wretch  that  he  is  ! — at  least  to  some 
of  us.” 

“ If  he  be  alive.  Ho.  I must  go  up  to  Pen-y-gwryd,  where 
he  was  last  seen,  and  find  out  what  I can.” 

“ They  will  be  all  in  bed  at  this  hour  of  the  night ; and  if — if 
anything  has  happened,  it  will  be  over  by  now,”  added  she  with 
a shudder. 


b b 2 


372 


nature’s  melodrama. 


“ God  forgive  me  ! It  will  indeed  : but  he  may  write — per- 
haps to  me.  He  is  no  coward,  I believe ; and  he  may  send  me 
a challenge.  Yes,  I will  wait  for  the  post.” 

“ Shall  you  accept  it  if  he  does  ? ” 

Major  Campbell  smiled  sadly. 

“Ho,  Miss  St.  Just;  you  may  set  your  mind  at  rest  upon 
that  point.  I have  done  quite  enough  harm  already  to  your 
family.  How,  good-bye  ! I will  wait  for  the  post  to-morrow  : 
do  you  go  to  your  sister.” 

Valencia,  went,  utterly  bewildered.  She  had  forgotten  Frank, 
but  Frank  had  not  forgotten  her.  He  had  hurried  to  his  room ; 
lay  till  morning,  sleepless  with  delight,  and  pouring  out  his  pure 
spirit  in  thanks  for  this  great  and  unexpected  blessing.  A new 
life  had  begun  for  him,  even  in  the  jaws  of  death.  He  would 
still  go  to  the  East.  It  seemed  easy  to  him  to  go  there  in  search 
of  a grave  ; how  much  more  now,  when  he  felt  so  full  of  magic 
life,  that  fever,  cholera,  the  chances  of  war,  could  not  harm  him  ! 
After  this  proof  of  God’s  love,  how  could  he  doubt,  how  fear  ? 

Little  he  thought  that,  three  doors  off  from  him,  Valencia  was 
sitting  up  the  whole  night  through,  vainly  trying  to  quiet  Lucia, 
who  refused  to  undress,  and  paced  up  and  down  her  room,  hour 
after  hour,  in  wild  misery,  which  I have  no  skill  to  detail. 


CHAPTEE  XXI. 
nature’s  melodrama. 

What,  then,  had  become  of  Elsley?  And  whence  had  he 
written  the  fatal  letter  ? He  had  hurried  up  the  high  road  for 
half  an  hour  and  more,  till  the  valley  on  the  left  sloped  upward 
more  rapidly,  in  dark  dreary  bogs,  the  moonlight  shining  on  their 
runnels ; while  the  mountain  on  his  right  sloped  down wards 
more  rapidly  in  dark  dreary  down,  strewn  with  rocks  which 
stood  out  black  against  the  sky.  He  was  nearing  the  head  of 
the  watershed  : soon  he  saw  slate  roofs  glittering  in  the  moon- 
light, and  found  himself  at  the  little  inn  of  Pen-y-gwryd,  at  the 
meeting  of  the  three  great  valleys,  the  central  heart  of  the 
mountains. 

And  a genial,  jovial  little  heart  it  is,  and  an  honest,  kindly 
little  heart  too,  with  warm  life-blood  within.  So  it  looked  that 
night,  with  every  window  red  with  comfortable  light,  and  a long 
stream  of  glare  pouring  across  the  road  from  the  open  door, 
gilding  the  fir-tree  tops  in  front ; but  its  geniality  only  made 


NATURE'S  MELODRAMA. 


373 


him  shudder.  He  had  been  there  more  than  once,  and  knew 
the  place  and  the  people ; and  knew,  too,  that  of  all  people  in 
the  world,  they  were  the  least  like  him.  He  hurried  past  the 
doorway,  and  caught  one  glimpse  of  the  bright  kitchen.  A 
sudden  thought  struck  him.  He  would  go  in  and  write  his 
letter  there.  But  not  yet — he  could  not  go  in  yet ; for  through 
the  open  door  came  some  sweet  Welsh  air,  so  sweet,  that  even  he 
paused  to  listen.  Men  were  singing  in  three  parts,  in  that  rich 
metallic  temper  of  voice,  and  that  perfect  time  and  tune,  which 
is  the  one  gift  still  left  to  that  strange  Cymry  race,  worn  out 
with  the  long  burden  of  so  many  thousand  years.  He  knew  the 
air ; it  was  “ The  Rising  of  the  Lark.”  Heavens  ! what  a bitter 
contrast  to  his  own  thoughts ! But  he  stood  rooted,  as  if  spell- 
bound, to  hear  it  to  the  end.  The  lark’s  upward  flight  was 
over ; and  Elsley  heard  him  come  quivering  down  from  heaven’s 
gate,  fluttering,  sinking,  trilling  self-complacently,  springing  aloft 
in  one  bar,  only  to  sink  lower  in  the  next,  and  call  more  softly 
to  his  brooding  mate  below ; till,  worn  out  with  his  ecstacy,  he 
murmured  one  last  sigh  of  joy,  and  sank  into  the  nest.  The 
picture  flashed  through  Elsley’s  brain  as  swiftly  as  the  notes  did 
through  his  ears.  He  breathed  more  freely  when  it  vanished 
with  the  sounds.  He  strode  hastily  in,  and  down  the  little 
passage  to  the  kitchen. 

It  was  a low  room,  ceiled  with  dark  beams,  from  which  hung 
bacon  and  fishing-rods,  harness  and  drying  stockings,  and  all  the 
miscellanea  of  a fishing  inn  kept  by  a farmer,  and  beneath  it  the 
usual  happy,  hearty,  honest  group.  There  was  Harry  Owen, 
bland  and  stalwart,  his  baby  in  his  arms,  smiling  upon  the  world 
in  general;  old  Mrs.  Pritchard,  bending  over  the  fire,  putting 
the  last  touch  to  one  of  those  miraculous  soufHets,  compact  of 
clouds  and  nectar,  which  transport  alike  palate  and  fancy,  at  the 
first  mouthful,  from  Snowdon  to  Belgrave  Square.  A sturdy 
fair-haired  Saxon  Gourbannelig  sat  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
and  two  of  the  beautiful  children  on  his  knee,  their  long  locks 
Ho  wing  over  the  elbows  of  his  shooting  jacket,  as,  with  both 
arms  round  them,  he  made  Punch  for  them  with  his  handker- 
chief and  his  fingers,  and  chattered  to  them  in  English,  while 
they  chattered  in  Welsh.  By  him  sat  another  Englishman,  to 
whom  the  three  tuneful  Snowdon  guides,  their  music-score  upon 
their  knees,  sat  listening  approvingly,  as  he  rolled  out,  with 
voice  as  of  a jolly  blackbird,  or  jollier  monk  of  old,  the  good  old 
Wessex  song : — 

“ My  dog  he  has  his  master’s  nose, 

To  smell  a knave  through  silken  hose ; 

If  friends  or  honest  men  go  by, 

Welcome,  quoth  my  dog  and  1 1 


374 


nature's  melodrama. 


“ Of  foreign  tongues  let  scholars  brag, 

With  fifteen  names  for  a pudding- bag  : 

Two  tongues  I know  ne’er  told  a lie  ; 

And  their  wearers  be,  my  dog  and  I ! ” 

“ That  ought  to  he  Harry’s  song,  and  the  colly’s  too,  eh  J ” said 
he,  pointing  to  the  dear  old  dog,  who  sat  with  his  head  on 
Owen’s  knee — “ eh,  my  men  % Here’s  a health  to  the  honest 
man  and  his  dog  !” 

And  all  laughed  and  drank ; while  Elsley’s  dark  face  looked 
in  at  the  door-way,  and  half  turned  to  escape.  Handsome  lady- 
like Mrs.  Owen,  hustling, out  of  the  kitchen  with  a supper-tray, 
ran  full  against  him,  and  uttered  a Welsh  scream. 

“ Show  me  a room,  and  bring  me  a pen  and  paper,”  said  he  ; 
and  then  started  in  his  turn,  as  all  had  started  at  him ; for  the 
two  Englishmen  looked  round,  and,  behold,  to  his  disgust,  the 
singer  was  none  other  than  Naylor ; the  actor  of  Punch  was 
Wynd. 

To  have  found  his  betes  noires  even  here,  and  at  such  a 
moment ! And  what  was  worse,  to  hear  Mrs.  Owen  say, — “ We 
have  no  room,  Sir,  unless  these  'gentlemen — ” 

“ Of  course,”  said  Wynd,  jumping  up,  a child  under  each 
arm.  “ Mr.  Vavasour ! we  shall  be  most  happy  to  have  your 
company, — for  a week  if  you  will ! ” 

“ Ten  minutes’  solitude  is  all  I ask,  Sir,  if  I am  not  intruding 
too  far.” 

“ Two  hours,  if  you  like.  We’ll  stay  here.  Mrs.  Owen, — 
the  thicker  the  merrier.”  But  Elsley  had  vanished  into  a 
chamber  bestrewn  with  plaids,  pipes,  hob-nail  boots,  fishing- 
tackle,  mathematical  books,  scraps  of  ore,  and  the  wild  confusion 
of  a gownsman’s  den. 

“The  party  is  taken  ill  with  a poem,”  said  Wynd. 

Naylor  stuck  out  his  heavy  under-lip,  and  glanced  sidelong  at 
his  friend. 

“ With  something  worse,  Ned.  That  man’s  eye  and  voice  had 
something  uncanny  in  them.  Mellot  said  he  would  go  crazed 
some  day  ; and  be  hanged  if  I don’t  think  he  is  so  now.” 

Another  live  minutes,  and  Elsley  rang  the  bell  violently  for 
hot  brandy-and-water. 

Mrs.  Owen  came  back  looking  a little  startled,  a letter  in  her 
hand. 

“The  gentleman  had  drunk  the  liquor  off  at  one  draught,  and 
ran  out  of  the  house  like  a wild  man.  Harry  Owen  must  go 
down  to  Beddgelert  instantly  with  the  letter  ; and  there  was  five 
shillings  to  pay  for  all.” 

Harry  Owen  rises,  like  a strong  and  patient  beast  of  burden, 
ready  for  any  amount  of  walking,  at  any  hour  in  the  twenty-four. 


nature’s  melodrama. 


375 


He  lias  been  up  Snowdon  once  to-day  already.  He  is  going  up 
again  at  twelve  to-night,  with  a German  who  wants  to  see  the 
sun  rise  ; he  deputes  that  office  to  J ohn  Eoberts,  and  strides 
out. 

“ Which  way  did  the  gentleman  go,  Mrs.  Owen?”  asks 
Haylor. 

“ Capel  Curig  road.” 

Hay  lor  whispers  to  Wynd,  who  sets  the  two  little  girls  on  the 
table,  and  hurries  out  with  him.  They  look  up  the  road,  and 
see  no  one  ; run  a couple  of  hundred  yards,  where  they  catch  a 
sight  of  the  next  turn,  clear  in  the  moonlight.  There  is  no  one 
on  the  road. 

“ Eun  to  thn  bridge,  Wynd,”  whispers  Hay  lor.  “ He  may 
have  thrown  himself  over.” 

“ Tally  ho  ! ” whispers  Wynd  in  return,  laying  his  hand  on 
Haylor’s  arm,  and  pointing  to  the  left  of  the  road. 

A hundred  yards  from  them,  over  the  boggy  upland,  among 
scattered  boulders,  a dark  figure  is  moving.  How  he  stops  short, 
gesticulating ; turns  right  and  left  irresolutely.  At  last  he 
hurries  on  and  upward ; he  is  running,  springing  from  stone  to 
stone. 

“ There  is  but  one  thing,  Wynd.  After  him,  or  he’ll  drown 
himself  in  Llyn  Cwm  Eynnon.” 

“Ho,  he’s  striking  to  the  right.  Can  he  be  going  up  the 
Glyder?” 

“We’ll  see  that  in  five  minutes.  All  in  the  day’s  work,  my 
boy ! I could  go  up  Mont  Blanc  with  such  a dinner  in  me.” 

The  two  gallant  men  run  in,  struggle  into  their  wet  boots 
again,  and  provisioned  with  meat  and  bread,  whiskey,  tobacco, 
and  plaids,  are  away  upon  Elsley’s  tracks,  having  left  Mrs.  Owen 
disconsolate  by  their  announcement,  that  a sudden  fancy  to 
sleep  on  the  Glyder  has  seized  them.  Hothing  more  will  they 
tell  her,  or  any  one  ; being  gentlemen,  however  much  slang  they 
may  talk  in  private. 

Elsley  left  the  door  of  Pen-y-gwryd,  careless  whither  he  went, 
if  he  went  only  far  enough. 

In  front  of  him  rose  the  Glyder  Yawr,  its  head  shrouded  in 
soft  mist,  through  which  the  moonlight  gleamed  upon  the 
chequered  quarries  of  that  enormous  desolation,  the  dead  bones 
of  the  eldest-born  of  time.  A wild  longing  seized  him  ; he 
would  escape  up  thither ; up  into  those  clouds,  up  anywhere  to 
be  alone — alone  with  his  miserable  self.  That  was  dreadful 
enough  : but  less  dreadful  than  having  a companion, — ay,  even  a 
stone  by  him — which  could  remind  him  of  the  scene  which  he 
had  left ; even  remind  him  that  there  was  another  human  being 
on  earth  beside  himself.  Yes, — to  put  that  cliff  between  him 


376 


nature’s  melodrama. 


and  all  the  world  ! Away  he  plunged  from  the  high  road, 
splashing  over  hoggy  uplands,  scrambling  among  scattered 
boulders,  across  a stony  torrent  bed,  and  then  across  another 
and  another  : — when  would  he  reach  that  dark  marbled  wall, 
which  rose  into  the  infinite  blank, — looking  within  a stone- 
throw  of  him,  and  yet  no  nearer  after  he  had  walked  a 
mile  ? 

He  reached  it  at  last,  and  rushed  up  the  talus  of  boulders, 
springing  from  stone  to  stone ; till  his  breath  failed  him,  and  he 
was  forced  to  settle  into  a less  frantic  pace.  But  upward  he 
would  go,  and  upward  he  went,  with  a strength  which  he  never 
Lad  felt  before.  Strong  h How  should  he  not  he  strong,  while 
every  vein  felt  filled  with  molten  lead ; while  some  unseen  power 
seemed  not  so  much  to  attract  him  upwards,  as  to  drive  him  by 
magical  repulsion  from  all  that  he  had  left  below  % 

So  upward  and  upward  ever,  driven  on  by  the  terrible  gad-fly, 
like  Io  of  old  he  went ; stumbling  upwards  along  torrent  beds  of 
slippery  slate,  writhing  himself  upward  through  crannies  where 
the  waterfall  plashed  cold  upon  his  chest  and  face,  yet  could  not 
cool  the  inward  fire ; climbing,  hand  and  knee,  up  cliffs  of  sharp- 
edged  rock ; striding  over  downs  where  huge  rocks  lay  crouched 
in  the  grass,  like  fossil  monsters  of  some  ancient  world,  and 
seemed  to  stare  at  him  with  still  and  angry  brows.  Upward 
still,  to  black  terraces  of  lava,  standing  out  hard  and  black  against 
the  grey  cloud,  gleaming  like  iron  in  the  moonlight,  stair  above 
stair,  like  those  over  which  Vathek  and  the  Princess  climbed  up 
to  the  halls  of  Eblis.  Over  their  crumbling  steps,  up  through 
their  cracks  and  crannies,  out  upon  a dreary  slope  of  broken 
stones,  and  then, — before  he  dives  upward  into  the  cloud  ten 
yards  above  his  head, — one  breathless  look  back  upon  the 
world.  I 

The  horizontal  curtain  of  mist ; gauzy  below,  fringed  with 
white  tufts  and  streamers,  deepening  above  into  the  blackness  of 
utter  night.  Below  it  a long  gulf  of  soft  yellow  haze  in  which, 
as  in  a bath  of  gold,  lie  delicate  bars  of  far-off  western  cloud  ; 
and  the  faint  glimmer  of  the  western  sea,  above  long  knotted 
spurs  of  hill,  in  deepest  shades,  like  a bunch  of  purple  grapes 
flecked  here  and  there  from  behind  with  gleams  of  golden  light ; 
and  beneath  them  again,  the  dark  woods  sleeping  over  Gwynnant, 
and  their  dark  double  sleeping  in  the  bright  lake  below. 

On  the  right  hand  Snowdon  rises.  Vast  sheets  of  utter  black- 
ness— vast  sheets  of  shining  light.  He  can  see  every  crag  which 
juts  from  the  green  walls  of  Galt-y-Wennalt ; and  far  past  it  into 
the  Great  Valley  of  Cwm  Dyli ; and  then  the  red  peak,  now  as 
black  as  night,  shuts  out  the  world  with  its  huge  mist-topped 
cone.  But  on  the  left  hand  all  is  deepest  shade.  Prom  the 


nature’s  melodrama. 


377 

highest  saw-edges  where  Moel  Meirch  cuts  the  golden  sky,  down 
to  the  very  depths  of  the  abyss,  all  is  lustrous  darkness,  sooty, 
and  yet  golden  still.  Let  the  darkness  lie  upon  it  for  ever  ! 
Hidden  he  those  woods  where  she  stood  an  hour  ago  ! Hidden 
that  road  down  which,  even  now,  they  may  he  pacing  home 
together  ! — Curse  the  thought ! He  covers  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  shudders  in  every  limb. 

He  lifts  his  hands  from  his  eyes  at  last : — what  has  befallen  % 

Before  the  golden  haze  a white  veil  is  falling  fast.  Sea,  moun- 
tain, lake,  are  vanishing,  fading  as  in  a dream.  Soon  he  can  see 
nothing,  but  the  twinkle  of  a light  in  Pen-y-gwryd,  a thousand 
feet  below ; happy  children  are  nestling  there  in  innocent  sleep. 
Jovial  voices  are  chatting  round  the  fire.  What  has  he  to  do 
with  youth,  and  health,  and  joy  ? Lower,  lower,  ye  clouds  ! — 
Shut  out  that  insolent  and  intruding  spark,  till  nothing  be  seen 
but  the  silver  sheet  of  Cwm  Fynnon,  and  the  silver  zig-zag  lines 
which  wander  into  it  among  black  morass,  while  down  the  moun- 
tain side  go,  softling  sliding,  troops  of  white  mist-angels.  Softly 
they  slide,  swift  and  yet  motionless,  as  if  by  some  inner  will, 
which  needs  no  force  of  limbs ; gliding  gently  round  the  crags, 
diving  gently  off  into  the  abyss,  their  long  white  robes  trailing 
about  their  feet  in  upward-floating  folds.  “ Let  us  go  hence,” 
they  seem  to  whisper  to  the  God-forsaken,  as  legends  say  they 
whispered,  when  they  left  their  doomed  shrine  in  old  Jerusalem. 
Let  the  white  fringe  fall  between  him  and  the  last  of  that  fair 
troop ; let  the  grey  curtain  follow,  the  black  pall  above  descend ; 
till  he  is  alone  in  darkness  that  may  be  felt,  and  in  the  shadow 
of  death. 

How  he  is  safe  at  last ; hidden  from  all  living  things — hidden, 
it  may  be,  from  God ; for  at  least  God  is  hidden  from  him. 
He  has  desired  to  be  alone  : and  he  is  alone ; the  centre  of  the 
universe,  if  universe  there  be.  All  created  things,  suns  and 
planets,  seem  to  revolve  round  him,  and  he  a point  of  darkness, 
not  of  light.  He  seems  to  float  self-poised  in  the  centre  of  the 
boundless  nothing,  upon  an  ell-broad  slab  of  stone — and  yet  not 
even  on  that : for  the  very  ground  on  which  he  stands  he  does 
not  feel.  He  does  not  feel  the  mist  which  wets  his  cheek,  the 
blood  which  throbs  within  his  veins.  He  only  is ; and  there  is 
none  beside. 

Horrible  thought ! Permitted  but  to  few,  and  to  them — thank 
God  ! — but  rarely.  For  two  minutes  of  that  absolute  self-isolation 
would  bring  madness ; if,  indeed,  it  be  not  the  very  essence  of 
madness  itself. 

There  he  stood ; he  knew  not  how  long ; without  motion, 
without  thought,  without  even  rage  or  hate,  now — in  one  blank 
paralysis  of  his  whole  nature ; conscious  only  of  self,  and  of  a 


378  nature’s  melodrama. 

dull,  inward  fire,  as  if  his  soul  were  a dark  vault,  lighted  with 
lurid  smoke. 

****** 

What  was  that  1 He  started  : shuddered — as  well  he  might. 
Had  he  seen  heaven  opened  ] or  another  place  ] So  momentary 
was  the  vision,  that  he  scarce  knew  what  he  saw — 

There  it  was  again  ! Lasting  hut  for  a moment : hut  long 
enough  to  let  him  see  the  whole  western  heaven  transfigured 
into  one  sheet  of  pale  blue  gauze,  and  before  it  Snowdon  tower- 
ing hlack  as  ink,  with  every  saw  and  crest  cut  out,  hard  and 
terrible,  against  the  lightning-glare : — and  then  the  blank  of 
darkness. 

Again  ! The  awful  black  giant,  towering  high  in  air,  before 
the  gates  of  that  blue  abyss  of  flame  : but  a black  crown  of  cloud 
has  settled  upon  his  head ; and  out  of  it  the  lightning  sparks 
leap  to  and  fro,  ringing  his  brows  with  a coronet  of  fire. 

Another  moment,  and  the  roar  of  that  great  battle  between 
earth  and  heaven  crashed  full  on  Elsley’s  ears. 

He  heard  it  leap  from  Snowdon,  sharp  and  rattling,  across 
the  gulf  toward  him,  till  it  crashed  full  upon  the  Glyder  over- 
head, and  rolled  and  flapped  from  crag  to  crag,  and  died  away 
along  the  dreary  downs.  Ho ! There  it  boomed  out  again, 
thundering  full  against  Siabod  on  the  left ; and  Siabod  tossed  it 
on  to  Moel  Meirch,  who  answered  from  all  her  clefts  and  peaks 
with  a long  confused  battle-growl,  and  then  tossed  it  across 
to  Aran ; and  Aran,  with  one  dull,  bluff  report  from  her  flat 
cliff,  to  nearer  Lliwedd ; till,  worn  out  with  the  long  buffetings 
of  that  giant  ring,  it  sank  and  died  on  Gwynnant  far  below 
— but  ere  it  died,  another  and  another  thunder- crash  burst, 
sharper  and  nearer  every  time,  to  hurry  round  the  hills  after 
the  one  which  roared  before  it. 

Another  minute,  and  the  blue  glare  filled  the  sky  once  more  : 
but  no  black  Titan  towered  before  it  now.  The  storm  had  leapt 
Llanberris  pass,  and  all  around  Elsley  was  one  howling  chaos  of 
cloud,  and  rain,  and  blinding  flame.  He  turned  and  fled  again. 

By  the  sensation  of  his  feet,  he  knew  that  he  was  going  up 
hill  j and  if  he  but  went  upward,  he  cared  not  whither  he  went. 
The  rain  gushed  through,  where  the  lightning  pierced  the  cloud, 
in  drops  like  musket  balls.  He  was  drenched  to  the  skin  in 
a moment ; dazzled  and  giddy  from  the  flashes ; stunned  by 
the  everlasting  roar,  peal  over-rushing  peal,  echo  out-shooting 
echo,  till  rocks  and  air  quivered  alike  beneath  the  continuous 

battle-cannonade. “What  matter?  What  fitter  guide  for 

such  a path  as  mine  than  the  blue  lightning  flashes  ? ” 

Poor  wretch  ! He  had  gone  out  of  his  way  for  many  a year, 
to  give  himself  up,  a willing  captive,  to  the  melo-dramatic  view 


nature’s  MELODRAMA. 


379 


of  Nature,  and  had  let  sights  and  sounds,  not  principles  and 
duties,  mould  his  feelings  for  him  : and  now,  in  his  utter  need 
and  utter  weakness,  he  had  met  her  in  a mood  which  was  too 
awful  for  such  as  he  was  to  resist.  The  Nemesis  had  come; 
and  swept  away  helplessly,  without  faith  and  hope,  hy  those 
outward  impressions  of  things  on  which  he  had  feasted  his  soul 
so  long,  he  was  the  puppet  of  his  own  eyes  and  ears  ; the  slave 
of  glare  and  noise. 

Breathless,  hut  still  untired,  he  toiled  up  a steep  incline, 
where  he  could  feel  beneath  him  neither  moss  nor  herb.  Now 
and  then  his  feet  brushed  through  a soft  tuft  of  parsley  fern  : hut 
soon  even  that  sign  of  vegetation  ceased ; his  feet  only  rasped 
over  rough  hare  rock,  and  he  was  alone  in  a desert  of  stone. 

What  was  that  sudden  apparition  above  him,  seen  for  a 
moment  dim  and  gigantic  through  the  mist,  hid  the  next  in 
darkness  h The  next  flash  showed  him  a line  of  obelisks,  like 
giants  crouching  side  hy  side,  staring  down  on  him  from  the 
clouds.  Another  five  minutes,  he  was  at  their  feet,  and  past 
them ; to  see  above  them  again  another  line  of  awful  watchers 
through  the  storms  and  rains  of  many  a thousand  years,  waiting, 
grim  and  silent,  like  those  doomed  senators  in  the  Capitol  of 
Rome,  till  their  own  turn  should  come,  and  the  last  lightning 
stroke  hurl  them  too  down,  to  lie  for  ever  hy  their  fallen 
brothers,  whose  mighty  hones  bestrewed  the  screes  below. 

He  groped  his  way  between  them;  saw  some  fifty  yards 
beyond  a higher  peak ; gained  it  hy  fierce  struggles  and  many 
falls ; saw  another  beyond  that ; and,  rushing  down  and  up 
two  slopes  of  moss,  reached  a region  where  the  upright  lava- 
ledges  had  been  split  asunder  into  chasms,  crushed  together 
again  into  caves,  toppled  over  each  other,  hurled  up  into  spires, 
in  such  chaotic  confusion,  that  progress  seemed  impossible. 

A flash  of  lightning  revealed  a lofty  cairn  above  his  head. 
There  was  yet,  then,  a higher  point ! He  would  reach  it,  if  he 
broke  every  limb  in  the  attempt ! and  madly  he  hurried  on, 
feeling  his  way  from  ledge  to  ledge,  squeezing  himself  through 
crannies,  crawling  on  hands  and  knees  along  the  sharp  chines  of 
the  rocks,  till  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  cairn ; climbed  it,  and 
threw  himself  at  full  length  on  the  summit  of  the  Glyder  Yawr. 

An  awful  place  it  always  is ; and  Elsley  saw  it  at  an  awful 
time,  as  the  glare  unveiled  below  him  a sea  of  rock-waves,  all 
sharp  on  edge,  pointing  toward  him  on  every  side  : or  rather 
one  wave-crest  of  a sea;  for  twenty  yards  beyond,  all  sloped 
away  into  the  abysmal  dark. 

Terrible  were  those  rocks  below ; and  ten  times  more  terrible 
as  seen  through  the  lurid  glow  of  his  distempered  brain.  All 
the  weird  peaks  and  slabs  seemed  pointing  up  at  him  : sharp- 


380 


NATURE  S MELODRAMA. 


toothed  jaws  gaped  upward — tongues  hissed  upward — arms 
pointed  upward — hounds  leaped  upward — monstrous  snake- 
heads  peered  upward  out  of  cracks  and  caves.  Did  he  not 
see  them  move,  writhe  ? or  wras  it  the  ever-shifting  light  of 
the  flashes  ? Did  he  not  hear  them  howl,  yell  at  him  % or 
was  it  but  the  wind,  tortured  in  their  labyrinthine  caverns  ? 

The  next  moment,  and  all  was  dark  again  : but  the  images 
which  had  been  called  up  remained,  and  fastened  on  his  brain, 
and  grew  there  ; and  when,  in  the  light  of  the  next  flash,  the 
scene  returned,  he  could  see  the  red  lips  of  the  phantom  hounds, 
the  bright  eyes  of  the  phantom  snakes ; the  tongues  wagged  in 
mockery ; the  hands  brandished  great  stones  to  hurl  at  him ; 
the  mountain-top  was  instinct  with  fiendish  life, — a very  Blocks- 
berg  of  all  hideous  shapes  and  sins. 

And  yet  he  did  not  shrink.  Horrible  it  was  ; he  was  going 
mad  before  it.  And  yet  he  took  a strange  and  fierce  delight  in 
making  it  more  horrible  ; in  maddening  himself  yet  more  and 
more  ; in  clothing  those  fantastic  stones  with  every  fancy  which 
could  inspire  another  man  with  dread.  But  he  had  no  dread. 
Perfect  rage,  like  perfect  love,  casts  out  fear.  He  rejoiced  in 
his  own  misery,  in  his  own  danger.  His  life  hung  on  a thread; 
any  instant  might  hurl  him  from  that  cairn,  a blackened  corpse. 

What  better  end  ? Let  it  come  ! He  was  Prometheus  on  the 
peak  of  Caucasus,  hurling  defiance  at  the  unjust  Jove  ! His 
hopes,  his  love,  his  very  honour — curse  it ! — ruined  ! Let  the 
lightning  stroke  come  ! He  were  a coward  to  shrink  from  it. 
Let  him  face  the  worst,  unprotected,  bare-headed,  naked,  and  do 
battle,  himself,  and  nothing  but  himself,  against  the  universe  ! 
And,  as  men  at  such  moments  will  do,  in  the  mad  desire  to  free 
the  self-tortured  spirit  from  some  unseen  and  choking  bond,  he 
began  wildly  tearing  off  his  clothes. 

But  merciful  nature  brought  relief,  and  stopped  him  in  his 
mad  efforts,  or  he  had  been  a frozen  corpse  long  ere  the  dawn. 
His  hands,  stiff  with  cold,  refused  to  obey  him  : as  he  delayed 
he  was  saved.  After  the  paroxysm  came  the  collapse  ; he  sank 
upon  the  top  of  the  cairn  half  senseless.  He  felt  himself  falling 
over  its  edge ; and  the  animal  instinct  of  self-preservation,  un- 
consciously to  him,  made  him  slide  down  gently,  till  he  sank 
into  a crack  between  two  rocks,  sheltered  somewhat,  as  it  befell 
happily,  from  the  lashing  of  the  rain. 

Another  minute,  and  he  slept  a dreamless  sleep. 

But  there  are  two  men  upon  that  mountain,  whom  neither 
rock  nor  rain,  storm  nor  thunder  have  conquered,  because  they 
are  simply  brave  honest  men  ; and  who  are,  perhaps,  far  more 
“ poetic  ” characters  at  this  moment  than  Elsley  Vavasour,  or 
any  dozen  of  mere  verse- writers,  because  they  are  hazarding  their 


nature’s  melodrama. 


381 


lives,  on  an  errand  of  mercy ; and  all  the  while  have  so  little 
notion  that  they  are  hazarding  their  lives,  or  doing  anything 
dangerous  or  heroic,  that,  instead  of  being  touched  for  a moment 
by  Nature’s  melodrama,  they  are  jesting  at  each  other’s  troubles, 
greeting  each  interval  of  darkness  with  mock  shouts  of  misery 
and  despair,  likening  the  crags  to  various  fogies  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, male  and  female,  and  only  pulling  the  cutty  pipes  out  of 
their  mouths  to  chant  snatches  of  jovial  songs.  They  are  Wynd 
and  Naylor,  the  two  Cambridge  boating-men,  in  bedrabbled 
flannel  trousers,  and  shoo  ting- jackets  pocketful  of  water;  who 
are  both  fully  agreed,  that  hunting  a mad  poet  over  the  moun- 
tains1 in  a thunder-storm  is,  on  the  whole,  “ the  jolliest  lark 
they  ever  had  in  their  lives.” 

“ He  must  have  gone  up  here  somewhere.  I saw  the  poor 
beggar  against  the  sky  as  plain  as  I see  you, — which  I don’t  ”• — 
for  darkness  cut  the  speech  short. 

“Where  be  you,  William  ! says  the  keeper.” 

“ Here  I be,  Sir,  says  the  beater,  with  my  ’eels  above  my  ’ed.” 
“ Wery  well,  William  ; when  you  get  your  ’ed  above  your 
’eels,  gae  on.” 

“ Eut  I’m  stuck  fast  between  two  stones  ! Hang  the  stones  ! ” 
And  Naylor  bursts  into  an  old  seventeeth  century  ditty,  of  the 
days  of  “ three-man  glees.” 

“ They  stoans,  they  stoans,  they  stoans,  they  stoans — - 
They  stoans  that  built  George  Riddler’s  oven, 

0 they  was  fetched  from  Blakeney  quarr’ ; 

And  George  he  was  a jolly  old  man, 

And  his  head  did  grow  above  his  bar’. 

“ One  thing  in  George  Riddler  I must  commend, 

And  I hold  it  for  a valiant  thing ; 

With  any  three  brothers  in  Gloucestershire 
He  swore  that  his  three  sons  should  sing. 

“ There  was  Dick  the  tribble,  and  Tom  the  mane, 

Let  every  man  sing  in  his  own  place ; 

And  William  he  was  the  eldest  brother, 

And  therefore  he  should  sing  the  base. 

I’m  down  again  ! This  is  my  thirteenth  fall.” 

“ So  am  I ! I shall  just  lie  and  light  a pipe.” 

“Come  on,  now,  and  look  round  the  lee  side  of  this  crag. 
We  shall  find  him  bundled  up  under  the  lee  of  one  of  them.” 

“ He  don’t  know  lee  from  windward,  I dare  say.” 

“ He’ll  soon  find  out  the  difference  by  his  skin  ; — if  it’s  half 
as  wet,  at  least,  as  mine  is.” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  what,  Naylor,  if  the  poor  fellow  has  crossed  the 
ridge,  and  tried  to  go  down  on  the  Twll  du,  he’s  a dead  man  by 
this  time.” 

“ He’ll  have  funked  it,  when  he  comes  to  the  edge,  and  sees 


382 


nature’s  melodrama. 


nothing  hut  mist  below.  But  if  he  has  wandered  on  to  the 
cliffs  above  Trifaen,  he’s  a dead  man,  then,  at  all  events.  Get 
out  of  the  way  of  that  flash  ! A close  shave,  that ! I believe 
my  whiskers  are  singed.” 

“Ton  my  honour,  Wynd,  we  ought  to  he  saying  our  prayers 
rather  than  joking  in  this  way.” 

“We  may  do  both,  and  he  none  the  worse.  As  for  coming  to 
grief,  old  hoy,  we’re  on  a good  errand,  I suppose,  and  the  devil 
himself  can’t  harm  us.  Still,  shame  to  him  who’s  ashamed  of 
saying  his  prayers,  as  Arnold  used  to  say.” 

And  all  the  while,  these  two  brave  lads  have  been  thrusting 
their  lanthorn  into  every  crack  and  cranny,  and  heating  round 
every  crag  carefully  and  cunningly,  till  long  past  two  in  the 
morning. 

“Here’s  the  ordinance  cairn,  at  last;  and — here  am  I astride 
of  a carving-knife,  I think  ! Come  and  help  me  off,  or  I shall 
he  split  to  the  chin  ! ” 

“I’m  coming ! What’s  this  soft  under  my  feet?  Who-o-o-oop ! 
Bun  him  to  earth  at  last ! ” 

And  diving  down  into  a crack,  Wynd  drags  out  by  the  collar 
the  unconscious  Elsley. 

“ What  a swab  ! Like  a piece  of  wet  blotting-paper.  Lucky 
he’s  not  made  of  salt.” 

“ He’s  dead  ! ” says  Haylor. 

“Hot  a hit.  I can  feel  his  heart.  There’s  life  in  the  old  dog  yet.” 
And  they  begin,  under  the  lee  of  a rock,  chafing  him,  wrap 
ping  him  in  their  plaids,  and  pouring  whiskey  down  his  throat. 

It  was  some  time  before  Vavasour  recovered  his  consciousness. 
The  first  use  which  he  made  of  it  was  to  hid  his  preservers  leave 
him  ; querulously  at  first ; and  then  fiercely,  when  he  found  out 
who  they  were. 

“Leave  me,  I say  ! Cannot  I he  alone  if  I choose?  What 
right  have  you  to  dog  me  in  this  way  ? ” 

“ My  dear  Sir,  we  have  as  much  right  here  as  any  one  else ; 
and  if  we  find  a man  dying  here  of  cold  and  fatigue — ” 

“ What  business  of  yours,  if  I choose  to  die  ? ” 

“ There  is  no  harm  in  your  dying,  Sir,”  says  Haylor.  “ The 
harm  is  in  our  letting  you  die ; I assure  you  it  is  entirely  to 
satisfy  our  own  consciences  we  are  troubling  you  thus ; ” and  he 
begins  pressing  him  to  take  food. 

“Ho,  Sir ; nothing  from  you  ! You  have  shown  me  imper- 
tinence enough  in  the  last  few  weeks,  without  pressing  on  me 
benefits  for  which  I do  not  wish.  Let  me  go  ! If  you  will  not 
leave  me,  I shall  leave  you  ! ” 

And  he  tried  to  rise  : but,  stiffened  with  cold,  sank  back  again 
upon  the  rock. 


nature’s  melodrama. 


383 


In  vain  they  tried  to  reason  with  him ; begged  his  pardon 
for  all  past  jests  : he  made  effort  after  effort  to  get  up  ; and  at 
last,  his  limbs,  regaining  strength  by  the  fierceness  of  his  passion, 
supported  him ; and  he  struggled  onward  toward  the  northern 
slope  of  the  mountain. 

“You  must  not  go  down  till  it  is  light ; it  is  as  much  as  your 
life  is  worth.” 

“ I am  going  to  Bangor,  Sir ; and  go  I will ! ” 

“ I tell  you,  there  is  fifteen  hundred  feet  of  slippery  screes 
below  you.” 

“ As  steep  as  a house-roof,  and  with  every  tile  on  it  loose. 
You  will  roll  from  top  to  bottom  before  you  have  gone  a hundred 
yards.” 

“What  care  I?  Let  me  go,  I say  ! Curse  you,  Sir  ! Do 
you  mean  to  use  force  1 ” 

“ I do,”  said  Wynd  quietly,  as  he  took  him  round  arms  and 
body,  and  set  him  down  on  the  rock  like  a child. 

“You  have  assaulted  me,  Sir  ! The  law  shall  avenge  this 
insult,  if  there  be  law  in  England  ! ” 

“ I know  nothing  about  law  : but  I suppose  it  will  justify  me 
in  saving  any  man’s  life  who  is  rushing  to  certain  death.” 

“ Look  here,  Sir ! ” said  Naylor.  “ Go  down,  if  you  will, 
when  it  grows  light : but  from  this  place  you  do  not  stir  yet. 
Whatever  you  may  think  of  our  conduct  to-night,  you  wilJ 
thank  us  for  it  to-morrow  morning,  when  you  see  where  you 
are.” 

The  unhappy  man  stamped  with  rage.  The  red  glare  of  the 
lanthorn  showed  him  his  two  powerful  warders,  standing  right 
and  left.  He  felt  that  there  was  no  escape  from  them,  but  in 
darkness ; and  suddenly  he  dashed  at  the  lanthorn,  and  tried  to 
tear  it  out  of  Wynd’s  hands. 

“ Steady,  Sir  ! ” said  Wynd,  springing  back,  and  parrying  his 
outstretched  hand.  “ If  you  wish  us  to  consider  you  in  your 
senses,  you  will  be  quiet.” 

“ And  if  you  don’t  choose  to  appear  sane,”  said  Naylor,  “you 
must  not  be  surprised  if  we  treat  you  as  men  are  treated  who — 
you  understand  me.” 

Elsley  was  silent  awhile ; his  rage,  finding  itself  impotent, 
subsided  into  dark  cunning.  “ Beally,  gentlemen,”  he  said  at 
length,  “ I believe  you  are  right ; I have  been  very  foolish,  and 
you  very  kind;  but  you  would  excuse  my  absurdities  if  you 
knew  their  provocation.” 

“ My  dear  Sir,”  said  Naylor,  “we  are  bound  to  believe  that 
you  have  good  cause  enough  for  what  you  are  doing.  We  have 
no  wish  to  interfere  impertinently.  Only  wait  till  daylight, 
and  wrap  yourself  in  one  of  our  plaids,  as  the  only  possible 


384 


nature’s  melodrama. 


method  of  carrying  out  your  own  intentions;  fur  dead  men 
can’t  go  to  Bangor,  whithersoever  else  they  may  go.” 

“ You  really  are  too  kind ; "but  I "believe  I must  accept  your 
offer,  under  penalty  of  being  called  mad  ; ” and  Elsley  laughed 
a hollow  laugh ; for  he  was  by  no  means  sure  that  he  was  not 
mad.  He  took  the  proffered  wrapper ; lay  down  ; and  seemed 
to  sleep. 

Wynd  and  Hay  lor,  congratulating  themselves  on  his  better 
mind,  lay  down  also  beneath  the  other  plaid,  intending  to  watch 
him.  But  worn  out  with  fatigue,  they  were  both  fast  asleep, 
ere  ten  minutes  had  passed. 

Elsley  had  determined  to  keep  himself  awake  at  all  risks  ; 
and  he  paid  a bitter  penalty  for  so  doing;  for  now  that  the 
fury  had  passed  away,  his  brain  began  to  work  freely  again, 
and  inflicted  torture  so  exquisite,  that  he  looked  back  with 
regret  on  the  unreasoning  madness  of  last  night,  as  a less  fearful 
hell  than  that  of  thought ; of  deliberate,  acute  recollections, 
suspicions,  trains  of  argument,  which  he  tried  to  thrust  from 
him,  and  yet  could  not.  "Who  has  not  known  in  the  still, 
sleepless  hours  of  night,  how  dark  thoughts  will  possess  the 
mind  with  terrors,  which  seem  logical,  irrefragable,  inevitable  ? 

So  it  was  then  with  the  wretched  Elsley ; within  his  mind  a 
whole  train  of  devil’s  advocates  seemed  arguing,  with  triumphant 
subtlety,  the  certainty  of  Lucia’s  treason  ; and  justifying  to  him 
his  rage,  his  hatred,  his  flight,  his  desertion  of  his  own  children, 
* — if  indeed  (so  far  had  the  devil  led  him  astray)  they  were  his 
own.  At  last  he  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  would  escape  to 
Bangor,  and  then  to  London,  cross  to  Erance,  to  Italy,  and  there 
bury  himself  amid  the  forests  of  the  Apennines,  or  the  sunny 
glens  of  Calabria.  And  for  a moment  the  vision  of  a poet’s  life 
in  that  glorious  land  brightened  his  dark  imagination.  Yes  ! He 
would  escape  thither,  and  be  at  peace ; and  if  the  world  heard  of 
him  again,  it  should  be  in  such  a thunder-voice,  as  those  with 
which  Shelley  and  Byron,  from  their  southern  seclusion,  had 
shaken  the  ungrateful  motherland  which  cast  them  out.  He 
would  escape ; and  now  was  the  time  to  do  it ! For  the  rain  had 
long  since  ceased;  the  dawn  was  approaching  fast;  the  cloud 
was  thinning  from  black  to  pearly  grey.  How  was  his  time — 
were  it  not  for  those  two  men ! To  be  kept,  guarded,  stopped 
by  them,  or  by  any  man  ! Shameful ! intolerable  ! He  had  fled 
hither  to  be  free,  and  even  here  he  found  himself  a prisoner. 
True,  they  had  promised  to  let  him  go  if  he  waited  till  daylight ; 
but  perhaps  they  were  deceiving  him,  as  he  was  deceiving  them, 
— why  not  ] They  thought  him  mad.  It  was  a ruse,  a stratagem 
to  keep  him  quiet  awhile,  and  then  bring  him  back, — “ restore 
him  to  his  afflicted  friends/’  His  friends,  truly  ! He  would  be 


nature's  melodrama. 


385 


too  cunning  for  them  yet.  And  even  if  they  meant  to  let  him 
go,  would  he  accept  liberty  from  them,  or  any  man?  No ; he 
was  free  ! He  had  a right  to  go ; and  go  he  would,  that  moment ! 

He  raised  himself  cautiously.  The  lanthorn  had  burned  to  the 
socket : and  he  could  not  see  the  men,  though  they  were  not 
four  yards  off ; but  by  their  regular  and  heavy  breathing  he  could 
tell  that  they  both  slept  soundly.  He  slipped  from  under  the 
plaid ; drew  off  his  shoes,  for  fear  of  noise  among  the  rocks,  and 
rose.  What  if  he  did  make  a noise  ? What  if  they  woke,  chased 
him,  brought  him  back  by  force  ? Curse  the  thought ! — And 
gliding  close  to  them,  he  listened  again  to  their  heavy  breathing. 

How  could  he  prevent  their  following  him  ? 

A horrible,  nameless  temptation  came  over  him.  Every  vein 
in  his  body  throbbed  fire ; his  brain  seemed  to  swell  to  bursting ; 
and  ere  he  was  aware,  he  found  himself  feeling  about  in  the  dark- 
ness for  a loose  stone. 

He  could  not  find  one.  Thank  God  that  he  could  not  find 
one  ! But  after  that  dreadful  thought  had  once  crossed  his  mind, 
he  must  flee  from  that  place  ere  the  brand  of  Cain  be  on  his  brow. 

With  a cunning  and  activity  utterly  new  to  him,  he  glided 
away,  like  a snake ; downward  over  crags  and  boulders,  he  knew 
not  how  long  or  how  far ; all  he  knew  was,  that  he  was  going 
down,  down,  down,  into  a dim  abyss.  There  was  just  light 
enough  to  discern  the  upper  surface  of  a rock  within  arm's  length  * 
beyond  that  all  was  blank.  He  seemed  to  be  hours  descending  ; 
to  be  going  down  miles  after  miles  : and  still  he  reached  no  level 
spot.  The  mountain-side  was  too  steep  for  him  to  stand  upright, 
except  at  moments.  It  seemed  one  uniform  quarry  of  smooth 

broken  slate,  slipping  down  for  ever  beneath  his  feet. 

Whither  ? He  grew  giddy,  and  more  giddy ; and  a horrible 
fantastic  notion  seized  him,  that  he  had  lost  his  way ; that  some- 
how, the  precipice  had  no  bottom,  no  end  at  all ; that  he  was  going; 
down  some  infinite  abyss,  into  the  very  depths  of  the  earth,  and 
the  molten  roots  of  the  mountains,  never  to  reascend.  He 
stopped,  trembling,  only  to  slide  down  again ; terrified,  he  tried 
to  struggle  upward  : but  the  shale  gave  way  beneath  his  feet,  and. 
go  he  must. 

What  was  that  noise  above  his  head  ? A falling  stone  ? Were- 
his  enemies  in  pursuit  ? Down  to  the  depth  of  hell  rather  than 
that  they  should  take  him  ! He  drove  his  heels  into  the  slippery 
shale,  and  rushed  forward  blindly,  springing,  slipping,  falling, 
rolling,  till  he  stopped  breathless  on  a jutting  slab. 

And  lo  ! below  him,  through  the  thin  pearly  veil  of  cloud,  a 
dim  world  of  dark  cliffs,  blue  lakes,  grey  mountains  with  their 
dark  heads  wrapped  in  cloud,  and  the  straight  vale  of  Nant 
Francon.  magnified  in  mist,  till  it  seemed  to  stretch  for  hundreds 


386  nature’s  melodrama* 

of  leagues  towards  the  rosy  north-east  dawning  and  the  shining 
sea. 

With  a wild  shout  he  hurried  onward.  In  five  minutes  he  was 
clear  of  the  cloud.  He  reached  the  foot  of  that  enormous  slope, 
and  hurried  over  rocky  ways,  till  he  stopped  at  the  top  of  a 
precipice,  full  six  hundred  feet  above  the  lonely  tarn  of  Idwal. 

Hever  mind.  He  knew  where  he  was  now;  he  knew  that 
there  was  a passage  somewhere,  for  he  had  once  seen  one  from 
below.  He  found  it,  and  almost  ran  along  the  boggy  shore  of 
Idwal,  looking  back  every  now  and  then  at  the  black  wall  of  the 
Twll  du,  in  dread  lest  he  should  see  two  moving  specks  in  hot 
pursuit. 

And  now  he  had  gained  the  shore  of  Ogwen,  and  the  broad 
coach-road ; and  down  it  he  strode,  running  at  times,  past  the 
roaring  cataract,  past  the  enormous  cliffs  of  the  Carnedds,  past 
Tin-y-maes,  where  nothing  was  stirring  but  a barking  clog;  on 
through  the  sleeping  streets  of  Bethesda,  past  the  black  stairs  of 
the  Penrhyn  quarry.  The  huge  clicking  ant-heap  was  silent  now, 
save  for  the  roar  of  Ogwen,  as  he  swirled  and  bubbled  down,  rich 
coffee-brown  from  last  night’s  rain. 

On,  past  rich  woods,  past  trim  cottages,  gardens  gay  with 
flowers ; past  rhododendron  shrubberies,  broad  fields  of  golden 
stubble,  sweet  clover,  and  grey  swedes,  with  Ogwen  making 
music  far  below.  The  sun  is  up  at  last,  and  Colonel  Pennant’s 
grim  slate  castle,  towering  above  black  woods,  glitters  metallic  in 
its  rays,  like  Chaucer’s  house  of  fame.  He  stops,  to  look  back 
once.  Par  up  the  vale,  eight  miles  away,  beneath  a roof  of  cloud, 
the  pass  of  Hant  Prancon  gapes  high  in  air  between  the  great 
jaws  of  the  Carnedcl  and  the  Glyder,  its  cliffs  marked  with  the 
upright  white  line  of  the  waterfall.  He  is  clear  of  the  mountains  ; 
clear  of  that  cursed  place,  and  all  its  cursed  thoughts  ! On,  past 
Llandegai  and  all  its  rose-clad  cottages ; past  yellow  quarrymen 
walking  out  to  their  work,  who  stare  as  they  pass  at  his  haggard 
face,  drenched  clothes,  and  streaming  hair.  He  does  not  see 
them.  One  fixed  thought  is  in  his  mind,  and  that  is,  the  railway 
station  at  Bangor. 

He  is  striding  through  Bangor  streets  now,  beside  the  summer 
sea,  from  which  fresh  scents  of  shore-weed  greet  him.  He  had 
rather  smell  the  smoke  and  gas  of  the  Strand. 

The  station  is  shut.  He  looks  at  the  bill  outside.  There  is 
no  train  for  full  two  hours ; and  he  throws  himself,  worn  out 
with  fatigue,  upon  the  door-step. 

How  a new  terror  seizes  him.  Has  he  money  enough  to  reach 
London  ] Has  he  his  purse  at  all  % Too  dreadful  to  find  him- 
self stopped  short,  on  the  very  brink  of  deliverance  ! A cold 
perspiration  breaks  from  his  forehead,  as  he  feels  in  every  pocket. 


nature’s  melodrama. 


387 


ifes,  liis  purse  is  there  : but  he  turns  sick  as  he  opens  it,  and 
dare  hardly  look.  Hurrah ! Five  pounds,  six — eight  ! That 
will  take  him  as  far  as  Paris.  He  can  walk ; beg  the  rest  of  the 
way,  if  need  be. 

What  will  he  do  now?  Wander  over  the  town,  and  gaze 
vacantly  at  one  little  object  and  another  about  the  house  fronts. 
One  thing  he  will  not  look  at ; and  that  is  the  bright  summer 
sea,  all  golden  in  the  sun  rays,  flecked  with  gay  white  sails. 
From  all  which  is  bright  and  calm,  and  cheerful,  his  soul  shrinks 
is  from  an  impertinence  ; he  longs  for  the  lurid  gas-light  of 
London,  and  the  roar  of  the  Strand,  and  the  everlasting  stream 
»f  faces,  among  whom  he  may  wander  free,  sure  that  no  one  will 
recognise  him,  the  disgraced,  the  desperate. 

The  weary  hours  roll  on.  Too  tired  to  stand  longer,  he  sits 
down  on  the  shafts  of  a cart,  and  tries  not  to  think.  It  is  not 
difficult.  Body  and  mind  are  alike  worn  out,  and  his  brain 
seems  filled  with  uniform  dull  mist. 

A shop-door  opens  in  front  of  him ; a boy  comes  out.  He 
Bees  bottles  inside,  and  shelves,  the  look  of  which  he  knows  too 
well. 

The  bottle-boy,  whistling,  begins  to  take  the  shutters  down. 
How  often,  in  Whitbury  of  old,  had  Elsley  done  the  same ! 
Half  amused,  he  watched  the  lad,  and  wandered  how  he  spent 
his  evenings,  and  what  works  he  read,  and  whether  he  ever 
thought  of  writing  poetry. 

And  as  he  watched,  all  his  past  life  rose  up  before  him,  ever 
since  he  served  out  medicines  fifteen  years  ago  ; — his  wild  aspi- 
rations, heavy  labours,  struggles,  plans,  brief  triumphs,  long  dis- 
appointments : and  here  was  what  it  had  all  come  to, — a failure, 
— a miserable,  shameful  failure  ! Hot  that  he  thought  of  it 
with  repentance,  with  a single  wish  that  he  had  done  otherwise  : 
but  only  with  disappointed  rage.  “ Yes  ! ” he  said  bitterly  to 
himself — 

“ f We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness, 

But  after  come  despondency  and  madness.  * 

“ This  is  the  way  of  the  world  with  all  who  have  nobler  feelings 
in  them  than  will  fit  into  its  cold  rules.  Curse  the  world  ! what 
on  earth  had  I to  do  with  mixing  myself  up  in  it,  and  marrying 
a fine  lady  ? Pool  that  I was  ! I might  have  known  from  the 
first  that  she  could  not  understand  me ; that  she  would  go  back 
to  her  own  ! Let  her  go  ! I will  forget  her,  and  the  world,  and 
everything — and  I know  how  ! ” 

And,  springing  up,  he  walked  across  to  the  druggist’s  shop. 

Years  before,  Elsley  had  tried  opium,  and  found,  unhappily 
for  him,  that  it  fed  his  fancy  without  inflicting  those  tortures  of 


388 


nature’s  melodrama. 


indigestion  which  keep  many,  happily  for  them,  from  its  magic 
snare.  He  had  tried  it  more  than  once  of  late  : bnt  Lucia  had 
had  a hint  of  the  fact  from  Thurnall ; and  in  just  terror  had 
exacted  from  him  a solemn  promise  never  to  touch  opium  again. 
Elsley  was  a man  of  honour,  and  the  promise  had  been  kept. 
But  now — “ I promised  her,  and  therefore  I will  break  my  pro- 
mise ! She  has  broken  hers,  and  I am  free  ! ” 

And  he  went  in  and  bought  his  opium.  He  took  a little  on 
the  spot,  to  allay  the  cravings  of  hunger.  He  reserved  a full 
dose  for  the  railway-carriage.  It  would  bridge  over  the  weary 
gulf  of  time  which  lay  between  him  and  town. 

He  took  his  second-class  place  at  last ; not  without  stares  and 
whispers  from  those  round  at  the  wild  figure  which  was  starting 
for  London,  without  bag  or  baggage.  But  as  the  clerks  agreed, 
“ If  he  was  running  away  from  his  creditors,  it  was  a shame  to 
stop  him.  If  he  was  running  from  the  police,  they  would  have 
the  more  sport  the  longer  the  run.  At  least,  it  was  no  business 
of  theirs.” 

There  was  one  thing  more  to  do,  and  he  did  it.  He  wrote  to 
Campbell,  a short  note. 

“ If,  as  I suppose,  you  expect  from  me  ‘ the  satisfaction  of  a 
gentleman,’  you  will  find  me  at  * * * Adelplii.  I am  not 
escaping  from  you,  but  from  the  whole  world.  If,  by  shooting 
me,  you  can  quicken  my  escape,  you  will  do  me  the  first  and  last 
favour  which  I am  likely  to  ask  for  from  you.” 

He  posted  his  letter,  settled  himself  in  a corner  of  the  carriage, 
and  took  his  second  dose  of  opium.  From  that  moment  he 
recollected  little  more.  A confused  whirl  of  hedges  and  woods, 
rattling  stations,  screaming  and  flashing  trains,  great  red  towns, 
white  chalk  cuttings  ; while  the  everlasting  roar  and  rattle  of 
the  carriages  shaped  themselves  in  his  brain  into  a hundred 
snatches  of  old  tunes,  all  full  of  a strange  merriment,  as  if  mock- 
ing at  his  misery,  striving  to  keep  him  awake  and  conscious  of 
who  and  what  he  was.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  shut  out  the 
hateful,  garish  world  : but  that  sound  he  could  not  shut  out. 
Too  tired  to  sleep,  too  tired  even  to  think,  he  could  do  nothing 
but  submit  to  the  ridiculous  torment ; watching  in  spite  of  him- 
self every  note,  as  one  jig- tune  after  another  was  fiddled  by  all 
the  imps  close  to  his  ear,  mile  after  mile,  and  county  after  county, 
for  all  that  weary  day,  which  seemed  full  seven  years  long. 

At  Euston  Square  the  porter  called  him  several  times  ere  he 
could  rouse  him.  He  could  hear  nothing  for  awhile  but  that 
same  imps’  melody,  even  though  it  had  stopped.  At  last  he  got 
out,  staring  round  him,  shook  himself  awake  by  one  strong  effort, 
and  hurried  away,  not  knowing  whither  he  went. 

Wrapt  up  in  self,  he  wandered  on  till  dark,  slept  on  a door- 


389 


FOND,  YET  NOT  FOOLISH. 

step,  and  awoke,  not  knowing  at  first  where  he  was.  Gradually 
all  the  horror  came  back  to  him,  and  with  the  horror  the  craving 
for  opium  wherewith  to  forget  it. 

He  looked  round  to  see  his  whereabouts.  Surely  this  must 
be  Golden  Square  ? A sudden  thought  struck  him.  He  went 
to  a chemist’s  shop,  bought  a fresh  supply  of  his  poison,  and, 
taking  only  enough  to  allay  the  cravings  of  his  stomach,  hurried 
tottering  in  the  direction  of  Drury  Lane. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

FOND,  YET  NOT  FOOLISH. 

Next  morning,  only  Claude  and  Campbell  made  their  appear- 
ance at  breakfast. 

Frank  came  in  ; found  that  Valencia  was  net  down  : and,  too 
excited  to  eat,  went  out  to  walk  till  she  should  appear.  Neither 
did  Lord  Scoutbush  come.  Where  was  he  ] 

Ignorant  of  the  whole  matter,  he  had  started  at  four  o’clock 
to  fish  in  the  Traeth  Mawr ; half  for  fishing’s  sake,  half  (as  he 
confessed)  to  gain  time  for  his  puzzled  brains  before  those  expla- 
nations with  Frank  Headley,  of  which  he  stood  in  mortal  fear. 

Mellot  and  Campbell  sat  down  together  to  breakfast ; but 
in  silence.  Claude  saw  that  something  had  gone  very  wrong ; 
Campbell  ate  nothing,  and  looked  nervously  out  of  the  window 
every  now  and  then. 

At  last  Bowie  entered  with  the  letters  and  a message.  There 
were  two  gentlemen  from  Pen-y-gwryd  must  speak  with  Mr. 
Mellot  immediately. 

He  went  out  and  found  Wynd  and  Naylor.  What  they  told 
him  we  know  already.  He  returned  instantly,  and  met  Camp- 
bell leaving  the  room. 

“ I have  news  of  Vavasour,”  whispered  he.  “ I have  a letter 
from  him.  Bowie,  order  me  a car  instantly  for  Bangor.  I am 
off  to  London,  Claude.  You  and  Bowie  will  take  care  of  my 
things,  and  send  them  after  me.” 

“ Major  Cawmill  has  only  to  command,”  said  Bowie,  and 
vanished  down  the  stairs. 

“ Now,  Claude,  quick ; read  that,  and  counsel  me.  I ought 
to  ask  Scoutbusli’s  opinion  ; but  the  poor  dear  fellow  is  out,  you 
see.” 

Claude  read  the  note  written  at  Bangor. 

A<  Fight  him  I will  not ! I detest  the  notion  : a soldier  should 


390 


FOND,  YET  NOT  FOOLISH. 


never  fight  a duel.  His  life  is  the  Queen’s,  and  not  his  own. 
And  yet,  if  the  honour  of  the  family  has  been  compromised  by 
my  folly,  I must  pay  the  penalty,  if  Scoutbush  thinks  it  proper.” 

So  said  Campbell,  who,  in  the  over-sensitiveness  of  his  con- 
science, had  actually  worked  himself  round  during  the  past  night 
into  this  new  fancy,  as  a chivalrous  act  of  utter  self-abasement. 
The  proud  self-possession  of  the  man  was  gone,  and  nothing  hut 
self-distrust  and  shame  remained. 

“ In  the  name  of  all  wit  and  wisdom,  what  is  the  meaning  of 
all  this?” 

“ You  do  not  know,  then,  what  passed  last  night  ?” 

“I?  I can  only  guess  that  Yavasour  has  had  one  of  his 
rages.” 

“ Then  you  must  know,”  said  Campbell  with  an  effort : u for 
you  must  explain  all  to  Scoutbush  when  he  returns ; and  I 
know  no  one  more  fit  for  the  office.”  And  he  briefly  told  him 
the  story. 

Mellot  was  much  affected.  “ The  wretched  ape  ! Campbell, 
your  first  thought  was  the  true  one  : you  must  not  fight  that  cur. 
After  all,  it’s  a farce  : you  won’t  fire  at  him,  and  he  can’t  hit 
you — so  leave  ill  alone.  Beside,  for  Scoutbush’s  sake,  her  sake, 
every  one’s  sake,  the  thing  must  he  hushed  up.  If  the  fellow 
chooses  to  duck  under  into  the  London  mire,  let  him  lie  there, 
and  forget  him  ! ” 

“Ho,  Claude ; his  pardon  I must  beg,  ere  I go  out  to  the  war: 
or  I shall  die  with  a sin  upon  my  soul.” 

“ My  dear,  noble  creature  ! if  you  must  go,  I go  with  you.  I 
must  see  fair  play  between  you  and  that  madman ; and  give  him 
a piece  of  my  mind,  too,  while  I am  about  it.  He  is  in  my  power : 
or  if  not  quite  that,  I know  one  in  whose  power  he  is  ! and  to 
reason  he  shall  he  brought.” 

“ Ho  ; you  must  stay  here.  I cannot  trust  Scoutbush’s  head, 
and  these  poor  dear  souls  will  have  no  one  to  look  to  hut  you. 
I can  trust  you  with  them,  I know.  Me  you  will  perhaps  never 
see  again.” 

“ You  can  trust  me  !”  said  the  affectionate  little  painter,  the 
tears  starting  to  his  eyes,  as  he  wrung  Campbell’s  hand. 

“ Mind  one  thing  ! If  that  Yavasour  shows  his  teeth,  there 
is  a spell  will  turn  him  to  stone.  Use  it ! ” 

“ Heaven  forbid  ! Let  him  show  his  teeth.  It  is  I who  am 
in  the  wrong.  Why  should  I make  him  more  my  enemy  than 
he  is  V 

“Be  it  so.  Only,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  call  him 
not  Elsley  Yavasour,  hut  plain  John  Briggs — and  see  what 
follows.” 

Yalencia  entered. 


FOND,  YET  NOT  FOOLISH.  ?91 

“ The  post  has  come  in  ! Oh,  dear  Major  Campbell,  is  there 
a letter  ? ” 

He  put  the  note  into  her  hand  in  silence.  She  read  it,  and 
darted  back  to  Lucia’s  room. 

“ Thank  God  that  she  did  not  see  that  I was  going  ! One 
more  pang  on  earth  spared  ! ” said  Campbell  to  himself. 

Valencia  hurried  to  Lucia’s  door.  She  was  holding  it  ajar, 
and  looking  out  with  pale  face,  and  wild  hungry  eyes. — “A 
letter  ? Don’t  be  silent,  or  I shall  go  mad  ! Tell  me  the  worst ! 
Is  he  alive  (l  ” 

“ Yes.” 

She  gasped,  and  staggered  against  the  door-post. 

“ Where  1 Why  does  he  not  come  back  to  me  ? ” asked  she, 
in  a confused,  abstracted  way. 

It  was  best  to  tell  the  truth,  and  have  it  over. 

“ He  has  gone  to  London,  Lucia.  He  will  think  over  it  all 
there,  and  be  sorry  for  it,  and  then  all  will  be  well  again.” 

But  Lucia  did  not  hear  the  end  of  that  sentence.  Murmuring 
to  herself,  “ To  London  ! To  London  ! ” she  hurried  back  into 
the  room. 

“ Clara  ! Clara  ! have  the  children  had  their  breakfast  ? ” 

“Yes,  Ma’am  ! ” says  Clara,  appearing  from  the  inner  room. 

“ Then  help  me  to  pack  up,  quick  ! Your  master  is  gone  to 
London  on  business  ; and  we  are  to  follow  him  immediately.” 

And  she  began  bustling  about  the  room. 

“ My  dearest  Lucia,  you  are  not  fit  to  travel  now  ! ” 

“ I shall  die  if  I stay  here  ; die  if  I do  nothing  ! I must  find 
him!  ” whispered  she.  “ Don’t  speak  loud,  or  Clara  will  hear.  I 
can  find  him,  and  nobody  can  but  me ! Why  don’t  you  help  me 
to  pack,  Valencia  ? ” 

“ My  dearest ! but  what  will  Scoutbush  say  when  he  comes 
home,  and  finds  you  gone  ? ” 

“ What  right  has  he  to  interfere  ? I am  Elsley’s  wife,  am  I 
not  ? and  may  follow  my  husband  if  I like  and  she  went  on 
desperately  collecting,  not  her  own  things,  but  Elsley’s. 

Valencia  watched  her  with  tear-brimming  eyes  ; collecting  all 
his  papers,  counting  over  his  clothes,  murmuring  to  herself  that 
he  would  want  this  and  that  in  London.  Her  sanity  seemed 
failing  her,  under  the  fixed  idea  that  she  had  only  to  see  him, 
and  set  all  right  with  a word. 

“ I will  go  and  get  you  some  breakfast,”  said  she  at  last. 

“ I want  none.  1 am  too  busy  to  eat.  Why  don’t  you  help  me  I” 

Valencia  had  not  the  heart  to  help,  believing,  as  she  did,  that 
Lucia’s  journey  would  be  as  bootless  as  it  would  be  dangerous  to 
her  health. 

“ I will  bring  you  some  breakfast,  and  you  must  try ; then  I 


392 


FOND.  YET  NOT  FOOLISH. 


will  help  to  pack  : ” and  utterly  bewildered  she  went  out ; and 
the  thought  uppermost  in  her  mind  was, — “ Oh,  that  I could 
find  Trank  Headley  ! ” 

Happy  was  it  for  Trank’s  love,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem, 
that  it  had  conquered  just  at  that  moment  of  terrible  distress. 
Valencia’s  acceptance  of  him  ‘had  been  hasty,  founded  rather  on 
sentiment  and  admiration  than  on  deep  affection ; and  her  feeling 
might  have  faltered,  waned,  died  away  in  self-distrust  of  its  own 
reality,  if  giddy  amusement,  if  mere  easy  happiness,  had  followed 
it.  But  now  the  fire  of  affliction  was  branding  in  the  thought 
of  him  upon  her  softened  heart. 

Living  at  the  utmost  strain  of  her  character,  Campbell  gone, 
her  brother  useless,  and  Lucia  and  the  children  depending  utterly 
on  her,  there  was  but  one  to  whom  she  could  look  for  comfort 
while  she  needed  it  most  utterly ; and  happy  for  her  and  for 
her  lover  that  she  could  go  to  him. 

“ Poor  Lucia ! thank  God  that  I have  some  one  who  will 
never  treat  me  so  ! who  will  lift  me  up  and  shield  me,  instead  of 
crushing  me  ! — dear  creature  ! — Oh  that  I may  find  him  !”  And 
her  heart  went  out  after  Trank  with  a gush  of  tenderness  which 
she  had  never  felt  before. 

“ Is  tills,  then,  love  ]”  she  asked  herself ; and  she  found  time 
to  slip  into  her  own  room  for  a moment  and  arrange  her 
dishevelled  hair,  ere  she  entered  the  breakfast-room. 

Trank  was  there,  luckily  alone,  pacing  nervously  up  and  down. 
He  hurried  up  to  her,  caught  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  gazed 
into  her  wan  and  haggard  face  with  the  intensest  tenderness  and 
anxiety. 

Valencia’s  eyes  looked  into  the  depths  of  his,  passive  and  con- 
fiding, till  they  failed  before  the  keenness  of  his  gaze,  and  swam 
in  glittering  mist. 

“Ah  ! ” thought  she  ; “ sorrow  is  a light  price  to  pay  for  the 
feeling  of  being  so  loved  by  such  a man  ! ” 

“You  are  tired, — ill ? What  a night  you  must  have  had ! 
Mellot  has  told  me  all.” 

“ Oh,  my  poor  sister ! ” and  wildly  she  poured  out  to  Trank 
her  wrath  against  Elsley,  her  inability  to  comfort  Lucia,  and  all 
the  misery  and  confusion  of  the  past  night. 

“ This  is  a sad  dawning  for  the  day  of  my  triumph  ! ” thought 
Trank,  who  longed  to  pour  out  his  heart  to  her  on  a thousand 
very  different  matters  : but  he  was  content ; it  was  enough  for 
him  that  she  could  tell  him  all,  and  confide  in  him  ; a truer 
sign  of  affection  than  any  selfish  love-making;  and  he  asked, 
and  answered,  with  such  tenderness  and  thoughtfulness  for  poor 
Lucia,  with  such  a deep  comprehension  of  Elsley’s  character, 
pitying  while  he  blamed,  that  he  won  his  reward  at  last. 


FOND,  YET  NOT  FOOLISH. 


393 


“ Oh  ! it  would  he  intolerable,  if  I had  not  through  it  all 
the  thought — ” and  blushing  crimson,  her  head  drooped  on  her 
bosom.  She  seemed  ready  to  drop  with  exhaustion. 

“ Sit  down,  sit  down,  or  you  will  fall ! ” said  Frank,  leading 
her  to  a chair ; and  as  he  led  her,  he  whispered  with  fluttering 
heart,  new  to  its  own  happiness,  and  longing  to  make  assurance 
sure — “ What  thought  ? ” 

She  was  silent  still ; but  he  felt  her  hand  tremble  in  his. 

“ The  thought  of  me  ?” 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  ; how  beautiful ! And  in  another 
moment,  neither  knew  how,  she  was  clasped  to  his  bosom. 

He  covered  her  face,  her  hair  with  kisses  : she  did  not  move  ; 
from  that  moment  she  felt  that  he  was  her  husband. 

“ Oh,  guide  me  ! counsel  me  ! pray  for  me  !”  sobbed  she.  “ I 
am  all  alone,  and  my  poor  sister,  she  is  going  mad,  I think,  and 
I have  no  one  to  trust  but  you ; and  you — you  will  leave  me  to 
go  to  those  dreadful  wars  ; and  then,  what  will  become  of  me  ? 
Oh,  stay  ! only  a few  days  ! ” and  holding  him  convulsively,  she 
answered  his  kisses  with  her  own. 

Frank  stood  as  in  a dream,  while  the  room  reeled  round  and 
vanished ; and  he  was  alone  for  a moment  upon  earth  with  her 
and  his  great  love. 

“ Tell  me,”  said  he,  at  last,  trying  to  awaken  himself  to 
action.  “ Tell  me  ! Is  she  really  going  to  seek  him  ? ” 

“ Yes,  selfish  and  forgetful  that  I am  ! You  must  help  me  ! she 
will  go  to  London,  nothing  can  stop  her ; — and  it  will  kill  her  ! ” 

“ It  may  drive  her  mad  to  keep  her  here.” 

“ It  will ! and  that  drives  me  mad  also.  What  can  I choose  ?” 

“Follow  where  God  leads.  It  is  she,  after  all,  who  must 
reclaim  him.  Leave  her  in  God’s  hands,  and  go  with  her  to 
London.” 

“ But  my  brother  ?” 

“ Mellot  or  I will  see  him.  Let  it  be  me.  Mellot  shall  go 
with  you  to  London.” 

“ Oh  that  you  were  going  ! ” 

“ Oh  that  I were  ! I will  follow,  though.  Do  you  think  that 
I can  be  long  away  from  you?  ....  But  I must  tell  your 
brother.  I had  a very  different  matter  on  which  to  speak  to 
him  this  morning,”  said  he,  with  a sad  smile  : “ but  better  as  it 
is.  He  shall  find  me,  I hope,  reasonable  and  trustworthy  in  this 
matter ; perhaps  enough  so  to  have  my  Valencia  committed  to 
me.  Precious  jewel ! I must  learn  to  be  a man  now,  at  least ; 
now  that  I have  you  to  care  for.” 

“ And  yet  you  go  and  leave  mef 

“Valencia!  Because  God  has  given  us  to  each  other,  shall 
our  thank-offering  be  to  shrink  cowardly  from  His  work?” 


394 


FOND,  YET  NOT  FOOLISH. 


He  spoke  more  sternly  than  lie  intended,  to  awe  into  obedience 
rather  himself  than  her  ; for  he  felt,  poor  fellow,  his  courage 
failing  fast,  while  he  held  that  treasure  in  his  arms. 

She  shuddered  in  silence. 

“ Forgive  me  ! ” he  cried  ; “I  was  too  harsh,  Valencia  ! ” 

“Ho!”  she  cried,  looking  up  at  him  with  a glorious  smile. 
“ Scold  me  ! Be  harsh  to  me  ! It  is  so  delicious  now  to  be 
reproved  by  you  ! ” And  as  she  spoke  she  felt  as  if  she  would 
rather  endure  torture  from  that  man’s  hand  than  bliss  from  any 
other.  How  many  strange  words  of  Lucia’s  that  new  feeling 
explained  to  her ; words  at  which  she  had  once  grown  angry,  as 
doting  weaknesses,  unjust  and  degrading  to  self-respect.  Poor 
Lucia  ! She  might  be  able  to  comfort  her  now,  for  she  had 
learnt  to  sympathise  with  her  by  experience  the  very  opposite  to 
hers.  Yet  there  must  have  been  a time  when  Lucia  clung  to 
Elsley  as  she  to  Frank.  How  horrible  to  have  her  eyes  opened 
thus ! — To  be  torn  and  flung  away  from  the  bosom  where  she 
longed  to  rest ! It  could  never  happen  to  her.  Of  course  her 
Frank  was  true,  though  all  the  world  were  false  : but  poor 
Lucia  ! She  must  go  to  her.  This  was  mere  selfishness  at  such 
a moment. 

“ You  will  find  Scoutbush,  then?” 

“ This  moment.  I will  order  the  car  now,  if  you  will  only 
eat.  You  must ! ” 

And  he  rang  the  bell,  and  then  made  her  sit  down  and  eat, 
almost  feeding  her  with  his  own  hand.  That,  too,  was  a new 
experience ; and  one  so  strangely  pleasant,  that  when  Bowie 
entered,  and  stared  solemnly  at  the  pair,  she  only  looked  up 
smiling,  though  blushing  a little. 

“ Get  a car  instantly,”  said  she. 

“ For  Mrs.  Vavasour,  my  lady  ? She  has  ordered  hers  already.” 

“ Ho  ; for  Mr.  Headley.  He  is  going  to  find  my  lord.  Frank, 
pour  me  out  a cup  of  tea  for  Lucia.” 

Bowie  vanished,  mystified.  “ It’s  no  concern  of  mine;  but 
better  tak’  up  wi’  a godly  meenister  than  a godless  pawet,”  said 
the  worthy  warrior  to  himself  as  he  marched  down  stairs. 

“You  see  that  I am  asserting  our  rights  already  before  all  th( 
world,”  said  she,  looking  up. 

“ I see  you  are  not  ashamed  of  me.” 

“ Ashamed  of  you  ? ” 

“ And  now  I must  go  to  Lucia.” 

“ And  to  London.” 

Valencia  began  to  cry  like  any  baby ; but  rose  and  carried 
away  the  tea  in  her  hand.  “ Must  I go  ? and  before  you  come 
back,  too  ? ” 

“is  she  determined  to  start  instantly  ? ” 


FOND,  BUT  NOT  FOOLISH. 


395 


44  I cannot  stop  her.  Yon  see  she  has  ordered  the  car.” 

“ Then  go,  my  darling ! My  own  ! my  Valencia  ! Cli,  a 
thousand  things  to  ask  you,  and  no  time  to  ask  them  in  ! I can 
write  ? ” said  Trank,  with  an  inquiring  smile. 

44  Write  ? Yes  ; every  day, — twice  a day.  I shall  live  upon 
those  letters.  Good-bye  ! ” And  out  she  went,  while  Trank 
sat  himself  down  at  the  table,  and  laid  his  head  upon  his  hands, 
stupified  with  delight,  till  Bowie  entered. 

44  The  car,  Sir.” 

44  Which  ? Who  ?”  asked  Trank,  looking  up  as  from  a dream. 

44  The  car,  Sir.” 

Trank  rose,  and  walked  down  stairs  abstractedly.  Bowie 
kept  close  to  his  side. 

44  Ye’ll  pardon  me,  Sir,”  said  he  in  a low  voice ; 44  but  I see, 
how  it  is, — the  more  blessing  for  you.  Ye’ll  be  pleased,  I trust 
to  take  more  care  of  this  jewel  than  others  have  of  that  one  : 
or — ” 

44 Or  you’ll  shoot  me  yourself,  Bowie?”  said  Trank,  half 
amused,  half  awed,  too,  by  the  stern  tone  of  the  guardsman. 
44  I’ll  give  you  leave  to  do  it  if  I deserve  it.” 

44  It’s  no  my  duty,  either  as  a soldier  or  as  a valet.  And, 
indeed,  I’ve  that  opeenion  of  you,  Sir,  that  I don’t  think  it’ll 
need  to  be  any  one’s  else’s  duty  either.” 

And  so  did  Mr.  Bowie  signify  his  approbation  of  the  new 
family  romance,  and  went  off  to  assist  Mrs.  Clara  in  getting  the 
trunks  down  stairs. 

Clara  was  in  high  dudgeon.  She  had  not  yet  completed  her 
flirtation  with  Mr.  Bowie,  and  felt  it  hard  to  have  her  one 
amusement  in  life  snatched  out  of  her  hard-worked  hands. 

44  I’m  sure  I don’t  know  why  we’re  moving.  I don’t  believe 
it’s  business.  Some  of  his  tantrums,  I dare  say.  I heard  her 
walking  up  and  down  the  room  all  last  night,  I’ll  swear.  Neither 
she  nor  Miss  Valencia  have  been  to  bed.  He’ll  kill  her  at  last, 
the  brute  !” 

44  It’s  no  concern  of  either  of  us,  that.  Have  ye  got  another 
trunk  to  bring  down  ? ” 

44  No  concern  ? Just  like  your  hard-heartedness,  Mr.  Bowie. 
And  as  soon  as  I’m  gone,  of  course  you  will  be  flirting  with 
these  impudent  Welshwomen,  in  their  horrid  hats.” 

44  May  be,  yes  ; may  be,  no.  But  flirting’s  no  marrying,  Mrs. 
Clara.” 

44  True  for  you,  Sir  ! Men  were  deceivers  ever,”  quoth  Clara, 
and  flounced  up  stairs  ; while  Bowie  looked  after  her  with  a 
grim  smile,  and  caught  her,  when  she  came  down  again,  long 
enough  to  give  her  a great  kiss ; the  only  language  which  he 
user!  in  wooing,  and  that  but  rarely. 


396 


THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR. 


“I)inna  fash,  lassie.  Mind  yonr  lady  and  the  poor  bairns’ 
like  a godly  handmaiden,  and  I’ll  buy  the  ring  when  the  sawmon 
fishing’s  over,  and  we’ll  just  be  married  ere  I start  for  the 
Crimee.” 

“The  sawmon !”  cried  Clara.  “I’ll  see  you  turned  into  a 
mermaid  first,  and  married  to  a sawmon  1” 

“ And  ye  won’t  do  anything  o’  the  kind,”  said  Bowie  to  him- 
self, and  shouldered  a valise. 

In  ten  minutes  the  ladies  were  packed  into  the  carriage,  and 
away,  under  Mellot’s  care.  Trank  watched  Valencia  looking 
back,  and  smiling  through  her  tears,  as  they  rolled  through  the 
village  ; and  then  got  into  his  car,  and  rattled  down  the  southern 
road  to  Pont  Aberglaslyn,  his  hand  still  tingling  with  the  last 
pressure  of  Valencia’s. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR. 

But  where  has  Stangrave  been  all  this  while  ? 

Where  any  given  bachelor  has  been,  for  any  given  month,  is 
difficult  to  say,  and  no  man’s  business  but  his  own.  But  where 
he  happened  to  be  on  a certain  afternoon  in  the  first  week  of 
October,  on  which  he  had  just  heard  the  news  of  Alma,  was, — 
upon  the  hills  between  Ems  and  Coblentz.  Walking  over  a 
high  table-land  of  stubbles,  which  would  be  grass  in  England  ; 
and  yet  with  all  its  tillage  is  perhaps  not  worth  more  than 
English  grass  would  be,  thanks  to  that  small-farm  system  much 
be-praised  by  some  who  know  not  wheat  from  turnips.  Then 
along  a road,  which  might  be  a Devon  one,  cut  in  the  hill- side, 
through  authentic  “ Devonian  ” slate,  where  the  deep  chocolate 
soil  is  lodged  on  the  top  of  the  upright  strata,  and  a thick  coat 
of  moss  and  wood  sedge  clusters  about  the  oak-scrub  roots,  round 
which  the  delicate  and  rare  oak-fern  mingles  its  fronds  with 
great  blue  campanulas  ; while  the  “white  admirals  ” and  silver- 
washed  “ fritillaries  ” flit  round  every  bramble  bed,  and  the  great 
“ purple  emperors  ” come  down  to  drink  in  the  road  puddles, 
and  sit  fearless,  flashing  off  their  velvet  wings  a blue  as  of  that 
empyrean  which  is  “ dark  by  excess  of  light.” 

Down  again  through  cultivated  lands,  corn  and  clover,  flax 
and  beet,  and  all  the  various  crops  with  which  the  industrious 
German  yeoman  ekes  out  his  little  patch  of  soil.  Past  the 
thrifty  husbandman  himself,  as  he  guides  the  two  milch-kine  in 
his  tiny  plough,  and  stops  at  the  furrow’s  end,  to  greet  you  with 


THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR. 


397 


the  hearty  German  smile  and  bow  ; while  the  little  fair-haired 
maiden,  walking  beneath  the  shade  of  standard  cherries,  walnuts, 
and  pears,  all  grey  with  fruit,  tills  the  cows’  mouths  with  chicory, 
and  wild  carnations,  and  pink  saintfoin,  and  many  a fragrant 
weed  which  richer  England  wastes. 

Down  once  more,  into  a glen  ; but  such  a glen  as  neither 
England  nor  America  has  ever  seen ; or,  please  God,  ever  will 
see,  glorious  as  it  is.  Stangrave,  who  knew  all  Europe  well,  had 
wralked  the  path  before ; but  he  stopped  then,  as  he  had  done  the 
first  time,  in  awe.  On  the  right,  slope  up  the  bare  slate  downs, 
up  to  the  foot  of  cliffs  : but  only  half  of  those  cliffs  God  has 
made.  Above  the  grey  slate  ledges  rise  cliffs  of  man’s  handiwork, 
pierced  with  a hundred  square  black  embrasures ; and  above 
them  the  long  barrack-ranges  of  a soldiers’  town  ; which  a foeman 
stormed  once,  when  it  was  young : but  what  foeman  will  ever 
storm  it  again  1 What  conqueror’s  foot  will  ever  tread  again 
upon  the  “ broad  stone  of  honour,”  and  call  Ehrenbreitstein  his  ? 

On  the  left  the  clover  and  the  corn  range  on,  beneath  the 
orchard  boughs,  up  to  yon  knoll  of  chestnut  and  acacia,  tall 
poplar,  feathered  larch  : — but  what  is  that  stonework  which 
gleams  grey  beneath  their  stems?  A summer-house  for  some 
great  duke,  looking  out  over  the  glorious  Ehine  vale,  and  up  the 
long  vineyards  of  the  bright  Moselle,  from  whence  he  may  bid 
his  people  eat,  drink,  and  take  their  ease,  for  they  have  much 
goods  laid  up  for  many  years  ? 

Eank  over  bank  of  earth  and  stone,  cleft  by  deep  embrasures, 
from  which  the  great  guns  grin  across  the  rich  gardens,  studded 
with  standard  fruit-trees,  which  close  the  glacis  to  its  topmost 
edge.  And  there,  below  him,  lie  the  vineyards  : every  rock- 
ledge  and  narrow  path  of  soil  tossing  its  golden  tendrils  to  the 
sun,  grey  with  ripening  clusters,  rich  with  noble  wine ; but  what 
is  that  wall  which  winds  among  them,  up  and  down,  creeping 
and  sneaking  over  every  ledge  and  knoll  of  vantage  ground, 
pierced  with  eyelet-holes,  backed  by  strange  stairs  and  galleries 
of  stone  ; till  it  rises  close  before  him,  to  meet  the  low  round 
tower  full  in  his  path,  from  whose  deep  casemates,  as  from  dark 
scowling  eye-holes,  the  ugly  cannon-eyes  stare  up  the  glen  ? 

Stangrave  knows  them  all — as  far  as  any  man  can  know. 
The  wards  of  the  key  which  locks  apart  the  nations  ; the  yet 
maiden  Troy  of  Europe ; the  greatest  fortress  of  the  world. 

He  walks  down,  turns  into  the  vineyards,  and  lies  down 
beneath  the  mellow  shade  of  vines.  He  has  no  sketch-book — 
article  forbidden  ; his  passport  is  in  his  pocket ; and  he  speaks 
all  tongues  of  German  men.  So,  fearless  of  gendarmes  and 
soldiers,  he  lies  down,  in  the  blazing  German  afternoon,  upon 
the  shaly  soil;  and  watches  the  bright-eyed  lizards  hunt  flies 


398 


THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR. 


along  the  roasting  walls,  and  the  great  locusts  buzz  and  pitch  and 
leap ; green  locusts  with  red  wings,  and  grey  locusts  with  blue 
wings ; he  notes  the  species,  for  he  is  tired  and  lazy,  and  has  so 
many  thoughts  within  his  head,  that  he  is  glad  to  toss  them  all 
away,  and  give  up  his  soul,  if  possible,  to  locusts  and  lizards, 
vines  and  shade. 

And  far  below  him  fleets  the  mighty  Ehine,  rich  with  the 
memories  of  two  thousand  stormy  years;  and  on  its  further 
bank  the  grey-walled  Coblentz  town,  and  the  long  arches  of  the 
Moselle-bridge,  and  the  rich  flats  of  Kaiser  Franz,  and  the  long 
poplar-crested  uplands,  which  look  so  gay,  and  are  so  stern  ; for 
everywhere  between  the  poplar-stems  the  saw-toothed  outline  of 
the  western  forts  cuts  the  blue  sky. 

And  far  beyond  it  all  sleeps,  high  in  air,  the  Eifel  with  its 
hundred  crater  peaks  ; blue  mound  behind  blue  mound,  melting 
into  white  haze. — Stangrave  has  walked  upon  those  hills,  and 
stood  upon  the  crater-lip  of  the  great  Moselkopf,  and  dreamed 
beside  the  Laacher  See,  beneath  the  ancient  abbey  walls;  and 
his  thoughts  flit  across  the  Moselle  flats  towards  his  ancient 
haunts,  as  he  asks  himself — How  long  has  that  old  Eifel  lain  in 
such  soft  sleep  ? How  long  ere  it  awake  again  ? 

It  may  awake,  geologists  confess, — why  not  ? and  blacken  all 
the  skies  with  smoke  of  Tophet,  pouring  its  streams  of  boiling 
mud  once  more  to  dam  the  Ehine,  whelming  the  works  of  men 
in  flood,  and  ash,  and  fire.  Why  not  ? The  old  earth  seems  so 
solid  at  first  sight : but  look  a little  nearer,  and  this  is  the  stuff 
of  which  she  is  made! — The  wreck  of  past  earthquakes,  the 
leavings  of  old  floods,  the  washings  of  cold  cinder  heaps — which 
are  smouldering  still  below. 

Stangrave  knew  that  well  enough.  He  had  climbed  Vesuvius, 
Etna,  Popocatepetl.  He  had  felt  many  an  earthquake  shock ; 
and  knew  how  far  to  trust  the  everlasting  hills.  And  was  old 
David  right,  he  thought  that  day,  when  he  held  the  earthquake 
and  the  volcano  as  the  truest  symbols  of  the  history  of  human 
kind,  and  of  the  dealings  of  their  Maker  with  them  ? All  the 
magnificent  Plutonic  imagery  of  the  Hebrew  poets,  had  it  no 
meaning  for  men  now  ? Did  the  Lord  still  uncover  the  found- 
ations of  the  world,  spiritual  as  well  as  physical,  with  the  breath 
of  his  displeasure  ? Was  the  solfa-tara  of  Tophet  still  ordained 
for  tyrants  h And  did  the  Lord  still  arise  out  of  his  place  to 
shake  terribly  the  earth?  Or,  had  the  moral  world  grown  as 
sleepy  as  the  physical  one  had  seemed  to  have  done  1 Would 
anything  awful,  unexpected,  tragical,  ever  burst  forth  again  from 
the  heart  of  earth,  or  from  the  heart  of  man  ? 

Surprising  question  ! What  can  ever  happen  henceforth,  save 
infinite  railroads  and  crystal  palaces,  peace  and  plenty,  cockaigne 


THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR. 


390 


and  dilettantism,  to  the  end  of  time  ? Is  it  not  full  sixty  whole 
years  since  the  first  French  revolution,  and  six  whole  years  since 
the  revolution  of  all  Europe?  Bah  ! — change  is  a thing  of  the 
past,  and  tragedy  a myth  of  our  forefathers  ; war  a had  habit  of 
old  barbarians,  eradicated  by  the  spread  of  an  enlightened  phi- 
lanthropy. Men  know  now  how  to  govern  the  world  far  too 
well  to  need  any  divine  visitations,  much  less  divine  punish- 
ments ; and  Stangrave  was  an  Utopian  dreamer,  only  to  be 
excused  by  the  fact  that  he  had  in  his  pocket  the  news  that 
three  great  nations  were  gone  forth  to  tear  each  other  as  of  yore. 

Nevertheless,  looking  round  upon  those  grim  earth-mounds 
and  embrasures,  he  could  not  but  give  the  men  who  put  them 
there  credit  for  supposing  that  they  might  be  wanted.  Ah  ! but 
that  might  be  only  one  of  the  direful  necessities  of  the  decaying 
civilization  of  the  old  world.  What  a contrast  to  the  unarmed 
and  peaceful  prosperity  of  his  own  country  ! Thank  heaven, 
New  England  needed  no  fortresses,  military  roads,  or  standing 
armies  ! True,  but  why  that  flush  of  contemptuous  pity  for  the 
poor  old  world,  which  could  only  hold  its  own  by  such  expensive 
and  ugly  methods  ? 

He  asked  himself  that  very  question,  a moment  after,  angrily  ; 
for  he  was  out  of  humour  with  himself,  with  his  country,  and 
indeed  with  the  universe  in  general.  And  across  his  mind 
flashed  a memorable  conversation  at  Constantinople  long  since, 
during  which  he  had  made  some  such  unwise  remark  to  Thurnall, 
and  received  from  him  a sharp  answer,  -which  parted  them  for 
years. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  that  conversation  should  come 
back  to  him  just  then ; for,  in  his  jealousy,  he  was  thinking  of 
Tom  Thurnall  often  enough  every  day ; and  in  spite  of  his 
enmity,  he  could  not  help  suspecting  more  and  more  that 
Thurnall  had  had  some  right  on  his  side  of  the  quarrel. 

He  had  been  twdtting  Thurnall  with  the  miserable  condition 
of  the  labourers  in  the  south  of  England,  and  extolling  his  own 
country  at  the  expense  of  ours.  Tom,  unable  to  deny  the  fact, 
had  waxed  all  the  more  vuoth  at  having  it  pressed  on  him ; and 
at  last  had  burst  forth — 

“ Well,  and  what  right  have  you  to  crow  over  us  on  that 
score?  I suppose,  if  you  could  hire  a man  in  America  for 
eighteen-pence  a day,  instead  of  a dollar  and  a half,  you  -would 
do  it  ? You  Americans  are  not  accustomed  to  give  more  for  a 
thing  than  it’s  worth  in  the  market,  are  you?” 

“ But,”  Stangrave  had  answered,  “the  glory  of  America  is, 
that  you  cannot  get  the  man  for  less  than  the  dollar  and  a half ; 
that  he  is  too  well  fed,  too  prosperous*  too  well  educated,  to  be 
made  a slave  of.” 


400 


THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR. 


“ And  therefore  makes  slaves  of  the  niggers  instead  ? I’ll  tell 
you  what,  I’m  sick  of  that  shallow  fallacy — the  glory  of  America  ! 
Do  you  mean  by  America,  the  country,  or  the  people  ? You 
Loast,  all  of  you,  of  your  country,  as  if  you  had  made  it  your- 
selves ; and  quite  forget  that  God  made  America,  and  America 
has  made  you.” 

“ Made  us,  Sir  ?”  quoth  Stangrave  fiercely  enough. 

“Made  you!”  replied  Thurnall,  exaggerating  his  half  truth 
from  anger.  “To  what  is  your  comfort,  your  high  feeding,  your 
very  education,  owing,  but  to  your  having  a thin  population,  a 
virgin  soil,  and  unlimited  means  of  emigration  ? What  credit 
to  you  if  you  need  no  poor  laws,  when  you  pack  off  your  children, 
as  fast  as  they  grow  up,  to  clear  more  ground  westward  ? What 
credit  to  your  yeomen  that  they  have  read  more  books  than  our 
clods  have,  while  they  can  earn  more  in  four  hours  than  our  poor 
fellows  in  twelve  ? It  all  depends  on  the  mere  physical  fact  of 
your  being  in  a new  country,  and  we  in  an  old  one  : and  as  for 
moral  superiority,  I shan’t  believe  in  that  while  I see  the  whole 
of  the  northern  states  so  utterly  given  up  to  the  ‘ almighty 
dollar,’  that  they  leave  the  honour  of  their  country  to  be  made 
ducks  and  drakes  of  by  a few  southern  slave-holders.  Moral 
superiority  ? We  hold  in  England  that  an  honest  man  is  a match 
for  three  rogues.  If  the  same  law  holds  good  in  the  United 
States,  I leave  you  to  settle  whether  Northerners  or  Southerners 
are  the  hones  ter  men.” 

Whereupon  (and  no  shame  to  Stangrave)  there  was  a heavy 
quarrel,  and  the  two  men  had  not  met  since. 

Eut  now,  those  words  of  Thurnall’s,  backed  by  far  bitterer 
ones  of  Marie’s,  were  fretting  Stangrave’s  heart. — What  if  they 
were  true  ? They  were  not  the  whole  truth.  There  was  beside, 
and  above  them  all,  a nobleness  in  the  American  heart,  wdiich 
could,  if  it  chose,  and  when  it  chose,  give  the  lie  to  that  bitter 
taunt  : but  had  it  done  so  already  ? 

At  least,  he  himself  had  not.  ...  If  Thurnall  and  Marie 
were  unjust  to  his  nation,  they  had  not  been  unjust  to  him.  He, 
at  least,  had  been  making,  all  his  life,  mere  outward  blessings 
causes  of  self-congratulation,  and  not  of  humility.  He  had  been 
priding  himself  on  wealth,  ease,  luxury,  cultivation,  without  a 
thought  that  these  were  God’s  gifts,  and  that  God  would  require 
an  account  of  them.  If  Thurnall  were  right,  was  he  himself  too 
truly  the  typical  American  ? And  bitterly  enough  he  accused  at 
once  himself  and  his  people. 

“Noble?  Marie  is  right!  We  boast  of  our  nobleness: 
better  to  take  the  only  opportunity  of  showing  it  which  we 
have  had  since  we  have  become  a nation  ! Heaped  with  every 
blessing  which  God  could  give ; beyond  the  reach  of  sorrow,  a 


THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR. 


401 


check,  even  an  interference ; shut  out  from  all  the  world  in 
God’s  new  Eden,  that  we  might  freely  eat  of  all  the  trees  of  the 
garden,  and  grow  and  spread,  and  enjoy  ourselves  like  the  birds 
of  heaven — God  only  laid  on  us  one  duty,  one  command,  to 
right  one  simple,  confessed,  conscious  wrong.  . . . 

“And  what  have  we  done? — what  have  even  I done?  We 
have  steadily,  deliberately  cringed  at  the  feet  of  the  wrong-doer, 
even  while  we  boasted  our  superiority  to  him  at  every  point,  and 
at  last,  for  the  sake  of  our  own  selfish  ease,  helped  him  to  forge 
new  chains  for  his  victims,  and  received  as  our  only  reward  fresh 
insults.  White  slaves  ? We,  perhaps,  and  not  the  English 
peasant,  are  the  white  slaves  ! At  least,  if  the  Irishman  emigrates 
to  England,  or  the  Englishman  to  Canada,  he  is  not  hunted  out 
with  blood-hounds,  and  delivered  back  to  his  landlord  to  be 
scourged  and  chained.  He  is  not  practically  out  of  the  pale  of 
law,  unrepresented,  forbidden  even  the  use  of  books ; and  even 
if  he  were,  there  is  an  excuse  for  the  old  country ; for  she  was 
founded  on  no  political  principles,  but  discovered  what  she 
knows  step  by  step — a sort  of  political  Topsy,  as  Claude  Mellot 
calls  her,  who  has  4 kinder  growed,’  doing  from  hand  to  mouth 
what  seemed  best.  But  that  we,  who  profess  to  start  as  an  ideal 
nation,  on  fixed  ideas  of  justice,  freedom,  and  equality — that  we 
should  have  been  stultifying  ever  since  every  great  principle  of 
which  we  so  loudly  boast ! ” 

****** 

“ The  old  Jew  used  to  say  of  his  nation,  ‘ It  is  God  that  hath 
made  us,  and  not  we  ourselves.’  We  say,  ‘It  is  we  that  have 

made  ourselves,  while  God ? ’ — Ah,  yes ; I recollect.  God’s 

work  is  to  save  a soul  here  and  a soul  there,  and  to  leave  America 
to  be  saved  by  the  Americans  who  made  it.  We  must  have  a 
broader  and  deeper  creed  than  that  if  we  are  to  work  out  our 
destiny.  The  battle  against  Middle  Age  slavery  was  fought  by 
the  old  Catholic  Church,  which  held  the  Jewish  notion,  and 
looked  on  the  Deity  as  the  actual  Kung  of  Christendom,  and 
every  man  in  it  as  God’s  own  child.  I see  now ! — Ho  wonder 
that  the  battle  in  America  has  as  yet  been  fought  by  the  Quakers, 
who  believe  that  there  is  a divine  light  and  voice  in  every  man ; 
while  the  Calvinist  preachers,  with  their  isolating  and  individu- 
alizing creed,  have  looked  on  with  folded  hands,  content  to  save 
a negro’s  soul  here  and  there,  whatsoever  might  become  of  the 
bodies  and  the  national  future  of  the  whole  negro  race.  Ho 
wonder,  while  such  men  have  the  teaching  of  the  people,  that 
it  is  necessary  still  in  the  nineteenth  century,  in  a Protestant 
country,  amid  sane  human  beings,  for  such  a man  as  Mr.  Sumner 

to  rebut,  in  sober  earnest,  the  argument  that  the  negro  was  the 

* _ ° ° 


402 


THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR. 


descendant  of  Canaan,  doomed  to  eternal  sla\ery  by  Noah’s 
curse ! ” 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

He  would  rouse  himself.  He  would  act,  speak,  write,  as 
many  a noble  fellow-countryman  was  doing.  He  had  avoided 
them  of  old  as  bores  and  fanatics  who  would  needs  wake  him 
from  his  luxurious  dreams.  He  had  even  hated  them,  simply 
because  they  were  more  righteous  than  he.  He  would  be  a new 
man  henceforth. 

He  strode  down  the  hill  through  the  cannon-guarded  vine, 
yards,  among  the  busy  groups  of  peasants. 

“ Yes,  Marie  was  right.  Life  is  meant  for  work,  and  not  for 
ease ; to  labour  in  danger  and  in  dread ; to  do  a little  good  ere 
the  night  comes,  when  no  man  can  work  : instead  of  trying  to 
realize  for  one-self  a Paradise ; ' not  even  Bunyan’s  shepherd- 
paradise,  much  less  Fourier’s  Casino-paradise ; and  perhaps  least 
of  all,  because  most  selfish  and  isolated  of  all,  my  own  heart- 
paradise — the  apotheosis  of  loafing,  as  Claude  calls  it.  Ah, 
Tennyson’s  Palace  of  Art  is  a true  word — too  true,  too  true  ! 

“ Art  ? What  if  the  most  necessary  human  art,  next  to  the 
art  of  agriculture,  be,,  after  all,  the  art  of  war  i It  has  been  so 
in  all  ages.  What  if  I have  been  befooled — what  if  all  the 
•Anglo-Saxon  world  has  been  befooled  by  forty  years  of  peace? 
We  have  forgotten  that  the  history  of  the  World  has  been  as  yet 
written  in  ^lOuci ; that  the  story  of  the  human  race  is  the  story 
' of  its  heroes  and  its  martyrs — the  slayers  and  the  slain.  Is  it 
not  becoming  such  once  more  in  Europe  now  ? And  what  divine 
exemption  can  we  claim  from  the  law  ? What  right  have  we  to 
suppose  that  it  will  be  aught  else,  as  long  as  there  are  wrongs 
unredressed  on  earth ; as  long  as  anger  and  ambition,  cupidity 
and  wounded  pride,  canker  the  hearts  of  men  1 What  if.  the 
wise  man’s  attitude,  and  the  wise  nation’s  attitude,  is  that  of  the 
Jews  rebuilding  their  ruined  walls, — the  tool  in  one  hand,  and 
the  sword  in  the  other  ; for  the  wild  Arabs  are  close  outside,  and 
the  time  is  short,  and  the  storm  has  only  lulled  awhile  in  mercy, 
that  wise  men  may  prepare  for  the  next  thunder-burst  ? It  is  an 
ugly  fact : but  I have  thrust  it  away  too  long,  and  I must  accept 
it  now  and  henceforth.  This,  and  not  luxurious  Broadway  ; 
this,  and  not  the  comfortable  New  England  village,  is  the  normal 
type  of  human  life ; and  this  is  the  model  city  ! — Armed  in- 
dustry, which  tills  the  corn  and  vine  among  the  cannons’  mouths ; 
which  never  forgets  their  need,  though  it  may  mask  and  beautify 
their  terror  : but  knows  that  as  long  as  cruelty  and  wrong  exist 
on  earth,  man’s  destiny  is  to  dare  and  suffer,  and,  if  it  must  be 
so,  to  die.  * * * * 

“ Yes,  I will  face  my  work ; my  danger,  if  need  be.  I wi!3 


THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR 


403 


find  Marie.  I will  tell  her  that  I accept  her  quest ; not  for  her 
sake,  hut  for  its  own.  Only  I will  demand  the  right  to  work  at 
it  as  I think  best,  patiently,  moderately,  wisely  if  I can  • for  a 
fanatic  I cannot  he,  even  for  her  sake.  She  may  hate  these 
slaveholders, — she  may  have  her  reasons, — hut  I cannot.  I 
cannot  deal  with  them  as  ferns  naturce.  I cannot  deny  that 
they  are  no  worse  men  than  I ; that  I should  have  done  what 
they  are  doing,  have  said  what  they  are  saying,  had  I heen  hred 
up,  as  they  have  heen,  with  irresponsible  power  over  the  souls 
and  bodies  of  human  beings.  God  ! I shudder  at  the  fancy  ! 
The  brute  that  .1  might  have  been — that  I should  have  been  ! 

“ Yes  ; one  thing  at  least  I have  learnt,  in  ail  my  experiments 
on  poor  humanity ; — never  to  see  a man  do  a wrong  thing, 
•without  feeling  that  I could  do  the  same  in  his  place.  I used 
to  pride  myself  on  that  once,  fool  that  I was,  and  call  it  compre- 
hensiveness. I used  to  make  it  an  excuse  for  sitting  by,  and 
seeing  the  devil  have  it  all  his  own  way,  and  call  that  toleration. 
I will  see  now  whether  I cannot  turn  the  said  knowledge  to  a 
better  account,  as  common  sense,  patience,  and  charity ; and  yet 
do  work  of  which  neither  I nor  my  country  need  be  ashamed.” 

He  walked  down,  and  on  to  the  bridge  of  boats.  They 
opened  in  the  centre;  as  he  reached  it  a steamer  was  passing. 
He  lounged  on  the  rail  as  the  boat  passed  through,  looking  care- 
lessly at  the  groups  of  tourists. 

Two  ladies  were  standing  on  the  steamer ; close  to  him ; 
looking  up  at  Ehrenbreitstein.  Was  it  ? — yes,  it  was  Sabina, 
and  Marie  by  her  ! 

But  ah,  how  changed ! The  cheeks  were  pale  and  hollow ; 
dark  rings — he  could  see  them  but  too  plainly  as  the  face  was 
lifted  up  toward  the  light — were  round  those  great  eyes,  bright 
no  longer.  Her  face  was  listless,  careworn  ; looking  all  the  more 
sad  and  impassive  by  the  side  of  Sabina’s,  as  she  pointed,  smiling 
and  sparkling,  up  to  the  fortress  ; and  seemed  trying  to  interest 
Marie  in  it,  but  in  vain. 

He  called  out.  He  waved  his  hand  wildly,  to  the  amusement 
of  the  officers  and  peasants  who  waited  by  his  side ; and  who, 
looking  first  at  his  excited  face,  and  then  at  the  two  beautiful 
women,  were  not  long  in  making  up  their  minds  about  him ; 
and  had  their  private  jests  accordingly. 

They  did  not  see  him,  but  turned  away  to  look  at  Coblentz ; 
and  the  steamer  swept  by. 

Stangrave  stamped  with  rage — upon  a Prussian  officer’s  thin 
boot. 

“ Ten  thousand  pardons  ! ” 

“ You  are  excused,  dear  Sir,  you  are  excused,”  says  the  good- 
natured  German,  with  a wicked  smile,  which  raises  a blush  on 

d d 2 


404 


THE  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR. 


Stangrave’s  clieek.  “ Your  eyes  were  dazzled  ; why  not  ? it  is 
not  often  that  one  sees  two  such  suns  together  in  the  same  sky. 
But  calm  yourself ; the  boat  stops  at  Coblentz.” 

Stangrave  could  not  well  call  the  man  of  war  to  account  for 
his  impertinence ; he  had  had  his  toes  half  crushed,  and  had  a 
right  to  indemnify  himself  as  he  thought  fit.  And  with  a hun- 
dred more  apologies,  Stangrave  prepared  to  dart  across  the  bridge 
as  soon  as  it  was  closed. 

Alas  ! after  the  steamer,  as  the  fates  would  have  it,  came  lum- 
bering down  one  of  those  monster  timber  rafts  ; and  it  was  a 
full  half  hour  before  Stangrave  could  get  across,  having  suffered 
all  the  while  the  torments  of  Tantalus,  as  he  watched  the  boat 
sweep  round  to  the  pier,  and  discharge  its  freight,  to  be  scattered 
whither  he  knew  not.  At  last  he  got  across,  and  went  in  chase 
to  the  nearest  hotel : but  they  were  not  there ; thence  to  the 
3iext,  and  the  next,  till  he  had  hunted  half  the  hotels  in  the 
town ; but  hunted  all  in  vain. 

He  is  rushing  -wildly  back  again,  to  try  if  he  can  obtain  any 
clue  at  the  steam-boat  pier,  through  the  narrow,  dirty  street  at 
the  back  of  the  Rhine  Cavalier,  when  he  is  stopped  short  by  a 
mighty  German  embrace,  and  a German  kiss  on  either  cheek,  as 
the  kiss  of  a housemaid’s  broom  ; while  a jolly  voice  shouts  in 
English : — 

“ Ah,  rny  dear,  dear  friend  ! and  you  would  pass  me ! Whither 
the  hangman  so  fast  are  you  running  in  the  mud  ! ” 

“ My  dear  Salomon  ! But  let  me  go,  I beseech  you ; I am  in 
search — ” 

“ In  search]”  cries  the  jolly  Jew  banker, — “ for  the  philo- 
sopher’s stone  ] You  had  all  that  man  could  want  a week  since, 
except  that.  Search  no  more,  but  come  home  with  me  ; and  we 
will  have  a night  as  of  the  gods  on  Olympus  ! ” 

“ My  dearest  fellow,  I am  looking  for  two  ladies  ! ” 

“ Two  ] ah,  rogue  ! shall  not  one  suffice  ] ” 

“ Don’t,  my  dearest  fellow!  I am  looking  for  two  English 
ladies.” 

“ Potz  ! You  shall  find  two  hundred  in  the  hotels,  ugly  and 
fair  ; but  the  two  fairest  are  gone  this  two  hours.” 

“ When  ] — which  ? ” cries  Stangrave,  suspecting  at  once. 

“ Sabina  Mellot,  and  a Sultana — I thought  her  of  The  Nation, 
and  would  have  offered  my  hand  on  the  spot : but  Madame 
Mellot  says  she  is  a Gentile.” 

“ Gone  ? And  you  have  seen  them  ! Where  ? ” 

“ To  Bertrich.  They  had  luncheon  with  my  mother,  and  then 
started  by  private  post.” 

“ I must  follow.” 

“ Ach  lieber  ? But  it  will  be  dark  in  an  hour.” 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


405 


* What  matter  % ” 

“ But  you  shall  find  them  to-morrow,  just  as  well  as  to-day. 
They  stay  at  Bertrich  for  a fortnight  more.  They  have  been 
there  now  a month,  and  only  left  it  last  week  for  a pleasure  tour, 
across  to  the  Ahrthal,  and  so  hack  by  Andernach.” 

“ Why  did  they  leave  Coblentz,  then,  in  such  hot  haste  ? ” 

“ Ah,  the  ladies  never  give  reasons.  There  were  letters  waiting 
for  them  at  our  house  : and  no  sooner  read,  hut  they  leaped  up, 
and  would  forth.  Come  home  now,  and  go  by  the  steamer  to- 
morrow morning.” 

“ Impossible  ! most  hospitable  of  Israelites.” 

“ To  go  to-night, — for  see  the  clouds  ! — Not  a postilion  will 
dare  to  leave  Coblentz,  under  that  quick-coming  allgemein  und 
ungelieuer  henkerdiund-und-teufeVs-gewitter.  ” 

Stangrave  looked  up,  growling  ; and  gave  in.  A Rhine- storm 
was  rolling  up  rapidly. 

“ They  will  be  caught  in  it.” 

“No.  They  are  far  beyond  its  path  by  now  ; while  you  shall 
endure  the  whole  visitation ; and  if  you  try  to  proceed,  pass  the 
night  in  a flea-pestered  post-house,  or  in  a ditch  of  water.” 

So  Stangrave  went  home  with  Herr  Salomon,  and  heard  from 
him,  amid  clouds  of  Latakia,  of  wars  and  rumours  of  wars,  dis- 
tress of  nations,  and  perplexity,  seen  by  the  light,  not  of  the 
Gospel,  but  of  the  stock-exchange ; while  the  storm  fell  without 
in  lightning,  hail,  rain,  of  right  Rhenish  potency. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 

We  must  go  back  a week  or  so,  to  England,  and  to  the  last 
day  of  September.  The  world  is  shooting  partridges,  and  asking 
nervously,  when  it  comes  home,  what  news  from  the  Crimea? 
The  flesh  who  serves  it  is  bathing  at  Margate.  The  devil  is 
keeping  up  his  usual  correspondence  with  both.  Eaton  Square 
is  a desolate  wilderness,  where  dusty  sparrows  alone  disturb  the 
dreams  of  frowzy  charwomen,  who,  like  Anchorites  amid  the 
tombs  of  the  Thebaid,  fulfil  the  contemplative  life  each  in  her 
subterranean  cell.  Beneath  St.  Peter’s  spire  the  cabman  sleeps 
within  his  cab,  the  horse  without  : the  waterman,  seated  on  his 
empty  bucket,  contemplates  the  untrodden  pavement  between 
his  feet,  and  is  at  rest.  The  blue  butcher’s  boy  trots  by,  with 
empty  cart,  five  miles  an  hour,  instead  of  full  fifteen,  and  stops 
to  chat  with  the  red  postman,  who,  his  occupation  gone,  smokes 
with  the  green  gatekeeper,  and  reviles  the  Czar.  Along  the 


406 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


whole  north  pavement  of  the  square  only  one  figure  moves,  and 
that  is  Major  Campbell. 

His  face  is  haggard  and  anxious ; he  walks  with  a quick, 
excited  step  ; earnest  enough,  whoever  else  is  not.  For  in  front 
of  Lord  Scoutbush’s  house  the  road  is  laid  with  straw.  There 
is  sickness  there,  anxiety,  bitter  tears.  Lucia  has  not  found  her 
husband,  bub  she  has  lost  her  child. 

Trembling,  Campbell  raises  the  muffled  knocker,  and  Bowie 
appears.  “ What  news  to-day?”  he  whispers. 

“ As  well  as  can  be  expected,  Sir,  and  as  quiet  as  a lamb  now, 
they  say.  But  it  has  been  a bad  time,  and  a bad  man  is  he  that 
caused  it.” 

“ A bad  time,  and  a bad  man.  How  is  Miss  St.  Just  ?” 

“ Just  gone  to  lie  down,  Sir.  Mrs.  Clara  is  on  the  stairs,  if 
you’d  like  to  see  her.” 

“Ho  ; tell  Miss  St.  Just  that  I have  no  news  yet.”  And  the 
Major  turns  wearily  away. 

Clara,  who  has  seen  him  from  above,  hurries  down  after  him 
into  the  street,  and  coaxes  him  to  come  in.  “I  am  sure  you 
have  had  no  breakfast,  Sir ; and  you  look  so  ill  and  worn.  And 
Miss  St.  Just  will  be  so  vexed  not  to  see  you.  She  will  get  up 
the  moment  she  hears  you  are  here.” 

“ Ho,  my  good  Miss  Clara,”  says  Campbell,  looking  down  -with 
a weary  smile.  “ I should  only  make  gloom  more  gloomy.  Bowie, 
tell  his  lordship  that  I shall  be  at  the  afternoon  train  to-morrow, 
let  what  will  happen.” 

“ Ay,  ay,  Sir.  We’re  a’  ready  to  march.  The  Major  looks  very 
ill,  Miss  Clara.  I wish  he’d  have  taken  your  counsel.  And  I 
wish  ye’d  take  mine,  and  marry  me  ere  I march,  just  to  try  what 
it’s  like.” 

“ I must  mind  my  mistress,  Mr.  Bowie,”  says  Clara. 

“ And  how  should  I interfere  with  that,  as  I’ve  said  twenty 
times,  when  I’m  safe  in  the  Crimea  ? I’ll  get  the  licence  this 
day,  say  what  ye  will : and  then  ye  would  not  have  the  heart  to 
let  me  spend  two  pounds  twelve  and  sixpence  for  nothing.” 

Whether  the  last  most  Caledonian  argument  conquered  or  not, 
Mr.  Bowie  got  the  licence,  was  married  before  breakfast  the  next 
morning,  and  started  for  the  Crimea  at  four  o’clock  in  the  after- 
noon ; most  astonished,  as  he  confided  in  the  train  to  Sergeant 
Mac  Arthur,  “ to  see  a lassie  that  never  gave  him  a kind  word  in 
her  life,  and  had  not  been  married  but  barely  six  hours,  greet  and 
greet  at  his  going,  till  she  vanished  away  into  hystericals.  They’re 
a very  unfathomable  species,  Sergeant,  are  they  women  ; and  if 
they  were  taken  out  o’  man,  they  took  the  best  part  o’  Adam  wi’ 
them,  and  left  us  to  shift  with  the  worse.” 

But  to  return  to  Campbell.  The  last  week  has  altered  him 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


407 


frightfully.  He  is  no  longer  the  stern,  self-possessed  warrior 
which  he  was ; he  no  longer  even  walks  upright  ; his  cheek  is 
pale,  his  eye  dull ; his  whole  countenance  sunken  together.  And 
now  that  the  excitement  of  anxiety  is  past,  he  draws  his  feet 
along  the  pavement  slowly,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground,  as  if  the  life  was  gone  from  out  of  him,  and 
existence  was  a heavy  weight. 

“ She  is  safe,  at  least,  then  ! One  burden  off  my  mind.  And  yet 
had  it  not  been  better  if  that  pure  spirit  had  returned  to  Him  who 
gave  it,  instead  of  waking  again  to  fresh  misery  ] I must  find  that 
man  ! Why,  I have  been  saying  so  to  myself  for  seven  days  past, 
and  yet  no  ray  of  light.  Can  the  coward  have  given  me  a wrong 
address  h Yet  why  give  me  an  address  at  all  if  he  meant  to  hide 
from  me  ? Why,  I have  been  saying  that  too,  to  myself  every 
day  for  the  last  week ! Over  and  over  again  the  same  dreary 
round  of  possibilities  and  suspicions.  However,  I must  be  quiet 
now,  if  I am  a man.  I can  hear  nothing  before  the  detective 
comes  at  two.  How  to  pass  the  weary,  weary  time  ? For  I am  past 
thinking — almost  past  praying — though  not  quite,  thank  God  ! ” 

He  paces  up  still  noisy  Piccadilly,  and  then  up  silent  Bond 
Street ; pauses  to  look  at  some  strange  fish  on  Groves’s  counter 
— anything  to  while  away  the  time ; then  he  plods  on  toward 
the  top  of  the  street,  and  turns  into  Mr.  Pillischer’s  shop,  and 
upstairs  to  the  microscopic  club-room.  There,  at  least,  he  can 
forget  himself  for  an  hour. 

He  looks  round  the  neat  pleasant  little  place,  with  its  cases  of 
curiosities,  and  its  exquisite  photographs,  and  bright  brass  instru- 
ments; its  glass  vases  stocked  with  delicate  water-plants  and 
animalcules,  with  the  sunlight  gleaming  through  the  green  and 
purple  seaweed  fronds,  while  the  air  is  fresh  and  fragrant  with 
the  seaweed  scent ; a quiet,  cool  little  hermitage  of  science  amid 
that  great,  noisy,  luxurious  west-end  world.  At  least,  it  brings 
back  to  him  the  thought  of  the  summer  sea,  and  Aberalva,  and 
his  shore-studies  : but  he  cannot  think  of  that  any  more.  It  i» 
past ; and  may  God  forgive  him  ! 

At  one  of  the  microscopes  on  the  slab  opposite  him  stands  a 
sturdy  bearded  man,  his  back  toward  the  Major ; while  the  wise 
little  German,  hopeless  of  customers,  is  leaning  over  him  in  his 
shirt  sleeves. 

“ But  I -never  have  seen  its  like ; it  had  just  like  a painter’s 
easel  in  its  stomach  yesterday  ! ” 

“ Why,  it’s  an  Echinus  Larva ; a sucking  sea-urchin  ! Hang 
it,  if  I had  known  you  hadn’t  seen  one,  I’d  have  brought  up 
half-a-dozen  of  them  ! ” 

“ May  I look,  Sir  ? ” asked  the  Major ; “ I,  too,  never  have 
seen  an  Echinus  Larva.” 


408 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


Tlie  Leanled  man  looks  up. 

“ Major  Campbell ! ” 

“ Mr.  Thurnall ! I thought  I could  not  be  mistaken  in  the 
voice.” 

44  This  is  too  pleasant,  Sir,  to  renew  our  watery  loves  together 
here,”  said  Tom : but  a second  look  at  the  Major’s  face  showed 
him  that  he  was  in  no  jesting  mood.  “ How  is  the  party  at 
Beddgelert  ? I fancied  you  with  them  still.” 

“ They  are  all  in  London,  at  Lord  Scoutbush’s  house,  in  Eaton 
Square.” 

“ In  London,  at  this  dull  time  ? I trust  nothing  unpleasant 
has  brought  them  here.” 

44  Mrs.  Yavasour  is  very  ill.  We  had  thoughts  of  sending  for 
you,  as  the  family  physician  was  out  of  town  : but  she  was  out 
of  danger,  thank  God,  in  a few  hours.  How  let  me  ask  in  turn 
after  you.  I hope  no  unpleasant  business  brings  you  up  three 
hundred  miles  from  your  practice  ? ” 

“ Ho  thing,  I assure  you.  Only  I have  given  up  my  Aberalva 
practice.  I am  going  to  the  East.” 

“ Like  the  rest  of  the  world.” 

44  Hot  exactly.  You  go  as  a dignified  soldier  of  her  Majesty’s^ 
I as  an  undignified  Abel  D rugger,  to  dose  Bashi-Bazouks.” 

44  Impossible  ! and  with  such  an  opening  as  you  had  there  ! 
You  must  excuse  me ; but  my  opinion  of  your  prudence  must 
not  be  so  rudely  shaken.” 

“ Why  do  you  not  ask  the  question  which  Balzac’s  old  Touran- 
geois  judge  asks,  whenever  a culprit  is  brought  before  him, — 
6 Who  is  she  % ’ ” 

“ Taking  for  granted  that  there  was  a woman  at  the  bottom  of 
every  mishap  ? I understand  you,”  said  the  Major,  with  a sad 
smile.  “ How,  let  you  and  I walk  a little  together,  and  look  at 
the  Echinoid  another  day — or  when  I return  from  Sevastopol — ” 
Tom  went  out  with  him.  A new  ray  of  hope  had  crossed  the 
Major’s  mind.  His  meeting  with  Thurnall  might  be  provi- 
dential ; for  he  recollected  now,  for  the  first  time,  Mellot’s 
parting  hint. 

44  You  knew  Elsley  Yavasour  well  ? ” 

“ Ho  man  better.” 

44  Did  you  think  that  there  was  any  tendency  to  madness  in 
him  ? ” 

“Ho  more  than  in  any  other  selfish,  vain,  irritable  man,  with 
a trong  imagination  left  to  run  riot.” 

4 4 Humph ! you  seem  to  have  divined  his  character.  May  I 
ask  if  you  knew  him  before  you  met  him  at  Aberalva  ? ” 

Tom  looked  up  sharply  in  the  Major’s  face. 

44  You  would  ask,  what  cause  I have  for  inquiring? 


I will 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


409 


tell  you  presently.  Meanwhile  I may  say,  that  Mellot  told  me 
frankly  that  you  had  some  power  over  him ; and  mentioned, 
mysteriously,  a name — John  Briggs,  I think — which  it  appears 
that  he  once  assumed.” 

“ If  Mellot  thought  fit  to  tell  you  anything,  I may  frankly  tell 
you  all.  John  Briggs  is  his  real  name.  I have  known  him  from 
childhood.”  And  then  Tom  poured  into  the  ears  of  the  surprised 
and  somewhat  disgusted  Major  all  he  had  to  tell. 

“You  have  kept  your  secret  mercifully,  and  used  it  wisely, 
Sir  ; and  I and  others  shall  he  always  your  debtors  for  it.  Now 

I dare  tell  you  in  turn,  in  strictest  confidence  of  course •” 

“ I am  far  too  poor  to  afford  the  luxury  of  babbling.” 

And  the  Major  told  him  what  we  all  know. 

“ I expected  as  much,”  said  he  dryly.  “ Now,  I suppose  that 
you  wish  me  to  exert  myself  in  finding  the  man  ? ” 

“ I do.” 

“Were  Mrs.  Vavasour  only  concerned,  I should  say — Not  I ! 
Better  that  she  should  never  set  eyes  on  him  again.” 

“ Better,  indeed ! ” said  he  bitterly : “ but  it  is  I who  must 
see  him,  if  but  for  five  minutes.  I must  ! ” 

“Major  Campbell’s  wish  is  a command.  Where  have  you 
searched  for  him  h ” 

“ At  his  address,  at  his  publisher’s,  at  the  houses  of  various 
literary  friends  of  his,  and  yet  no  trace.” 

“ Has  he  gone  to  the  Continent  h ” 

“ Heaven  knows  ! . I have  inquired  at  every  passport  office 
for  news  of  any  one  answering  his  description ; indeed,  I have 
two  detectives,  I may  tell  you,  at  this  moment,  watching  every 
possible  place.  There  is  but  one  hope,  if  he  be  alive.  Can  he 
have  gone  home  to  his  native  town  ? ” 

“ Never  ! Anywhere  but  there.” 

“ Is  there  any  old  friend  of  the  lower  class  with  whom  he  may 
have  taken  lodgings  h ” 

Tom  pondered. 

“ There  wras  a fellow,  a noisy  blackguard,  whom  Briggs  was 
asking  after  this  very  summer — a fellow  who  went  off  from 
Whitbury  with  some  players.  I know  Briggs  used  to  go  to  the 
theatre  with  him  as  a boy — what  was  his  name  h He  tried 
acting,  but  did  not  succeed ; and  then  became  a scene-shifter, 
or  something  of  the  kind,  at  the  Adelphi.  He  has  some  com- 
plaint, I forget  what,  which  made  him  an  out-patient  at  St. 
Mumpsimus’s,  some  months  every  year.  I know  that  he  was 
there  this  summer,  for  I wrote  to  ask,  at  Briggs’s  request,  and 
Briggs  sent  him  a sovereign  through  me.” 

“ But  what  makes  you  fancy  that  he  can  have  taken  shelter 
with  such  a man,  and  one  who  knows  his  secret  V} 


410 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


“ It  is  but  a chance  : but  be  may  have  done  it  from  the  mere 
feeling  of  loneliness — just  to  hold  by  some  one  whom  he  knows 
in  this  great  wilderness ; especially  a man  in  whose  eyes  he  will 
be  a great  man,  and  to  whom  he  has  done  a kindness  ; still,  it  is 
the  merest  chance.” 

aWe  will  take  it,  nevertheless,  forlorn  hope  though  it  be.” 

They  took  a cab  to  the  hospital,  and,  with  some  trouble,  got 
the  man’s  name  and  address,  and  drove  in  search  of  him.  They 
had  some  difficulty  in  finding  his  abode,  lor  it  was  up  an  alley 
at  the  back  of  Drury  Lane,  in  the  top  of  one  of  those  foul  old 
houses  which  hold  a family  in  every  room;  but,  by  dint  of 
knocking  at  one  door  and  the  other,  and  bearing  meekly  much 
reviling  consequent  thereon,  they  arrived,  u per  modum  tollendi ,” 
at  a door  which  must  be  the  right  one,  as  all  the  rest  were 
wrong. 

“Does  John  Barker  live  here?”  asks  Thurnall,  putting  his 
head  in  cautiously  for  fear  of  drunken  Irishmen,  who  might  be 
seized  with  the  national  impulse  to  “ slate  ” him. 

“What’s  that  to  you?”  answers  a shrill  voice  from  among 
soapsuds  and  steaming  rags. 

“ Here  is  a gentleman  wants  to  speak  to  him.” 

“ So  do  a many  as  won’t  have  that  pleasure,  and  would  be  little 
the  better  for  it  if  they  had.  Get  along  with  you,  I knows  your 
iay.” 

“We  really  want  to  speak  to  him,  and  to  pay  him,  if  he 
will—” 

“ Go  along  ! I’m  up  to  the  something  to  your  advantage 
dodge,  and  to  the  mustachio  dodge  too.  Do  you  fancy  I don’t 
know  a bailiff,  because  he’s  dress’d  like  a swell  ? ” 

“But,  my  good  woman  ! ” said  Tom,  laughing. 

“You  put  your  crocodile  foot  in  here,  and  I’ll  hit  the  hot 
water  over  the  both  of  you ! ” and  she  caught  up  the  pan  of 
soapsuds. 

“ My  dear  soul ! I am  a doctor  belonging  to  the  hospital 
which  your  husband  goes  to  ; and  have  known  him  since  he  was 
a boy,  down  in  Berkshire.” 

“ You  ? ” and  she  looked  keenly  at  him. 

“ My  name  is  ThurnaH.  I was  a medical  man  once  in  Whit* 
bury,  where  your  husband  was  born.” 

“You?”  said  she  again,  in  a softened  tone.  “I  knows  that 
name  well  enough.” 

“ You  do  ? What  was  your  name,  then  ? ” said  Tom,  who 
recognised  the  woman’s  Berkshire  accent  beneath  its  coat  of 
cockneyism. 

“ Hever  you  mind  : I’m  no  credit  to  it,  so  I’ll  let  it  be.  * But 
come  in,  for  the  old  county’s  sake.  Can’t  offer  you  a chair,  he’s 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


411 


pawned  ’em  all.  Pleasant  old  place  it  was  down  there,  when  I 
was  a young  girl ; they  say  it’s  grow’d  a grand  place  now,  wi’  a 
railroad.  I think  many  times  I’d  like  to  go  down  and  die 
there.”  She  spoke  in  a rough,  sullen,  careless  tone,  as  if  life- 
weary. 

“ My  good  woman,”  said  Major  Campbell,  a little  impatiently, 
“ can  you  find  your  husband  for  us  ?” 

“Why,  then?”  asked  she  sharply,  her  suspicion  seeming  to 
leturn. 

“If  he  will  answer  a few  questions,  I will  give  him  five 
shillings.  If  he  can  find  out  for  I me  what  I want,  I will  give 
him  five  pounds.” 

“•Shouldn’t  I do  as  well?  If  you  gi’  it  he,  it’s  little  out  of  it 
I shall  see,  but  he  coming  home  tipsy  when  it’s  spent.  All, 
dear  ! it  was  a sad  day  for  me  when  I first  fell  in  with  they 
play-goers ! ” 

“ Why  should  she  not  do  it  as  well  ?”  said  Thurnall.  “ Mrs. 
Barker,  do  you  know  anything  of  a person  named  Briggs — John 
Briggs,  the  apothecary’s  son,  at  Whitbury  ? ” 

She  laughed  a harsh  bitter  laugh. 

“ Know  he  ? yes,  and  too  much  reason.  That  was  where  it 
all  begun,  along  of  that  play-going  of  he’s  and  my  master’s.” 

“ Have  you  seen  him  lately  ? ” asked  Campbell,  eagerly. 

“ I seen  ’un  ? I’d  hit  this  water  over  the  fellow,  and  all  his 
play-acting  merryandrews,  if  ever  he  sot  a foot  here  ! ” 

“ But  have  you  heard  of  him?” 

“ Ees — ” said  she  carelessly  ; “ he’s  round  here  now,  I heard 
my  master  say,  about  the  ’Delphy,  with  my  master  : a drinking, 
I suppose.  K o good,  I’ll  warrant.” 

“ My  good  woman,”  said  Campbell,  panting  for  breath,  “ bring 
me  face  to  face  with  that  man,  and  I’ll  put  a five-pound  note  in 
your  hand  there  and  then.” 

“ Pive  pounds  is  a sight  to  me  : but  it’s  a sight  more  than  the 
sight  of  he’s  worth,”  said  she  suspiciously  again. 

“ That’s  the  gentleman’s  concern,”  said  Tom.  “ The  money’s 
yours.  I suppose  you  know  the  worth  of  it  by  now  ? ” 

“ Ees,  none  better.  But  I don’t  want  he  to  get  hold  of  it ; 
he’s  made  away  with  enough  already ; ” and  she  began  to  think. 

“ Curiously  impassive  people,  we  Wessex  worthies,  when  we 
are  a little  ground  down  with  trouble.  You  must  give  her  time, 
and  she  will  do  our  work.  She  wants  the  money,  but  she  is 
long  past  being  excited  at  the  prospect  of  it.” 

“ What’s  that  you’re  whispering? ” asked  she  sharply. 

Campbell  stamped  with  impatience. 

“You  don’t  trust  us  yet,  eh? — then,  there  ! ” and  he  took  five 
sovereigns  from  his  pocket,  and  tossed  them  on  the  table. 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


±12 

“ There’s  your  money ! I trust  you  to  do  the  work,  as  you’ve 
been  paid  beforehand.” 

She  caught  up  the  gold,  rang  every  piece  on  the  table  to  see  if 
it  was  sound ; and  then — 

44  Sally,  you  go  down  with  these  gentlemen  to  the  Jonson’s 
Head,  and  if  he  ben’t  there,  go  to  the  Fighting  Cocks  ; and  if 
he  ben’t  there,  go  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington ; and  tell  he  there’s 
two  gentlemen  has  heard  of  his  poetry,  and  wants  to  hear  Jun 
excite.  And  then  you  give  he  a glass  of  liquor,  and  praise  up 
his  nonsense,  and  he’ll  tell  you  all  he  knows,  and  a sight  more. 
Gi’  un  plenty  to  drink.  It’ll  be  a saving  and  a charity,  for  if  he 
don’t  get  it  out  of  you,  he  will  out  of  me.” 

And  she  returned  doggedly  to  her  washing. 

44  Can’t  I do  anything  for  you?”  asked  Tom,  whose  heart 
always  yearned  over  a Berkshire  soul.  44  I have  plenty  of  friends 
down  at  Whitbury  still.” 

“ More  than  I have.  Ho,  Sir,”  said  she  sadly,  and  with  the 
first  touch  of  sweetness  they  had  yet  heard  in  her  voice.  “ I’ve 
cured  my  own  bacon,  and  I must  eat  it.  There’s  none  down 
there  minds  me,  but  them  that  would  be  ashamed  of  me.  And 
I couldn’t  go  without  he,  and  they  wouldn’t  take  he  in ; so  I 
must  just  bide.”  And  she  went  on  washing. 

44  God  help  her  ! ” said  Campbell,  as  he  went  down-stairs. 

44  Misery  breeds  that  temper,  and  only  misery,  in  our  people. 
I can  show  you  as  thorough  gentlemen  and  ladies,  people  round 
Whitbury,  living  on  ten  shillings  a week,  as  you  will  show  me 
in  Belgravia  living  on  five  thousand  a year.” 

“ I don’t  doubt  it,”  said  Campbell.  ...  u So  4 she  couldn’t  go 
without  he,’  drunken  dog  as  he  is  ! Thus  it  is  with  them  all 
the  world  over.” 

“ So  much  the  worse  for  them,”  said  Tom  cynically,  44  and  for 
the  men  too.  They  make  fools  of  us  first  with  our  over-fond- 
ness of  them ; and  then  they  let  us  make  fools  of  ourselves  with 
their  over-fondness  of  us.” 

64 1 fancy  sometimes  that  they  were  all  meant  to  be  the  mates 
of  angels,  and  stooped  to  men  as  a pis  aller ; reversing  the  old. 
story  of  the  sons  of  heaven  and  the  daughters  of  men ." 

%%  And  accounting  for  the  present  degeneracy.  When  the  sons 
of  heaven  married  the  daughters  of  men,  their  offspring  were 
giants  and  men  of  renown.  How  the  sons  of  men  marry  the 
daughters  of  heaven,  and  the  offspring  is  Wiggle,  Waggle,  Wind- 
bag, and  Bedtape.” 

They  visited  one  public-house  after  another,  till  the  girl  founa 
for  them  the  man  they  wanted,  a shabby,  sodden-visaged  fellow, 
with  a would-be  jaunty  air  of  conscious  shrewdness  and  vanity, 
who  stood  before  the  bar,  his  thumbs  in  his  armholes,  and  laying 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER.  413 

down  the  law  to  a group  of  coster-boys,  for  want  of  a better 
audience. 

The  girl,  after  sundry  plucks  at  bis  coat-tail,  stopped  him  in 
the  midst  of  his  oration,  and  explained  her  errand  somewhat 
fearfully. 

Mr.  Barker  bent  down  his  head  on  one  side,  to  signify  that 
he  was  absorbed  in  attention  to  her  news ; and  then  drawing 
himself  up  once  more,  lifted  his  greasy  hat  high  in  air,  bowed 
to  the  very  floor,  and  broke  forth  : — 

‘ ‘ Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors  : 

A man  of  war,  and  eke  a man  of  peace — 

That  is,  if  you  come  peaceful ; and  if  not. 

Have  we  not  Hiren  here  ? ” 

And  the  fellow  put  himself  into  a fresh  attitude. 

“We  come  in  peace,  my  good  Sir,”  said  Tom;  “first  to  listen 
to  your  talented  effusions,  and  next  for  a little  private  conversa- 
tion on  a subject  on  which — ” but  Mr.  Barker  interrupted, — 

“ To  listen,  and  to  drink  ? The  muse  is  dry, 

And  Pegasus  doth  thirst  for  Hippocrene, 

And  fain  would  paint — imbibe  the  vulgar  call — 

Or  hot  or  cold,  or  long  or  short — Attendant ! ” 

The  bar  girl,  who  knew  his  humour,  came  forward. 

* ‘ Glasses  all  round — these  noble  knights  will  pay — 

Of'  hottest  hot,  and  stiffest  stiff.  Thou  mark’st  me  ? 

Now  to  your  quest ! ” 

And  he  faced  round  with  a third  attitude. 

“Do  you  know  Mr.  Briggs  ? ” asked  the  straightforward 
Major. 

He  rolled  his  eyes  to  every  quarter  of  the  seventh  sphere, 
clapped  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  assumed  an  expression  of 
angelic  gratitude  : — 

“ My  benefactor  ! Were  the  world  a waste, 

A thistle-waste,  ass-nibbled,  goldfinch-pecked, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  asses, 

I still  could  lay  this  hand  upon  this  heart, 

And  cry,  ‘ not  yet  alone  ! I know  a man — 

A man  Jove-fronted,  and  Hyperion- curled — 

A gushing,  flushing,  blushing  human  heart ! ’ ” 

“As  sure  as  you  live,  Sir,”  said  Tom,  “if  you  won’t  talk 
honest  prose,  I won’t  pay  for  the  brandy  and  water.” 

* Base  is  the  slave  who  pays,  and  baser  prose — 

Hang  uninspired  patter  ! ’Tis  in  verse 
That  angels  praise,  and  fiends  in  Limbo  curse.” 


414 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


44  And  asses  bray,  I think,”  said  Tom,  in  despair.  “ Do  you 
know  where  Mr.  Briggs  is  now?” 

“ And  why  the  devil  do  yon  want  to  know  ? 

For  that’s  a verse,  Sir,  although  somewhat  slow.” 

The  two  men  laughed  in  spite  of  themselves. 

44  Better  tell  the  fellow  the  plain  truth,”  said  Campbell  to 
Thurnall. 

“ Come  out  with  us,  and  I will  tell  you.”  And  Campbell 
threw  down  the  money,  and  led  him  off,  after  he  had  gulped 
down  his  own  brandy,  and  half  Tom’s  beside. 

44  What  ? leave  the  nepenthe  untasted  ?” 

They  took  him  out,  and  he  tucked  his  arms  through  theirs, 
and  strutted  down  Drury  Lane. 

“ The  fact  is,  Sir, — I speak  to  you,  of  course,  in  confidence,  as 
one  gentleman  to  another — ” 

Mr.  Barker  replied  by  a lofty  and  gracious  bow. 

“ That  his  family  are  exceedingly  distressed  at  his  absence, 
and  his  wife,  who,  as  you  may  know,  is  a lady  of  high  family, 
dangerously  ill ; and  he  cannot  be  aware  of  the  fact.  This 
gentleman  is  the  medical  man  of  her  family,  and  I — I am  an 
intimate  friend.  We  should  esteem  it  therefore  the  very  greatest 
service  if  you  would  give  us  any  information  which — ” 

44  Weep  no  more,  gentle  shepherds,  weep  no  more ; 

For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead, 

Sunk  though  he  he  upon  a garret  floor, 

With  fumes  of  Morpheus’  crown  about  his  head.” 

“Fumes  of  Morpheus’  crown?”  asked  Thurnall. 

44  That  crimson  flower  which  crowns  the  sleepy  god, 

And  sweeps  the  soul  aloft,  though  flesh  may  nod.  ” 

44  He  has  taken  to  opium  ! ” said  Thurnall  to  the  bewildered 
Major.  44  What  1 should  have  expected.” 

44  God  help  him  ! we  must  save  him  out  of  that  last  lowest 
deep  ! ” cried  Campbell.  44  Where  is  he,  Sir  ? ” 

44  A vow  ! a vow  ! I have  a vow  in  heaven ! 

Why  guide  the  hounds  toward  the  trembling  hare  ? 

Our  Adonais  hath  drunk  poison ; Oh  ! 

What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life’s  early  cup  with  such  a draught  of  woe  ? ” 

44  As  I live,  Sir,”  cried  Campbell,  losing  his  self-possession  in 
disgust  at  the  fool ; 44  you  may  rhyme  your  own  nonsense  as 
long  as  you  will,  but  you  shan’t  quote  the  Adonais  about  that 
fellow  in  my  presence.” 

Mr..  Barker  shook  himself  fiercely  free  of  Campbell’s  arm,  and 


THE  THIRTIETH  OP  SEPTEMBER.  415 

faced  round  afc  him  in  a fighting  attitude.  Campbell  stood  eyeing 
him  sternly,  hut  at  his  wit’s  end. 

“ Mr.  Barker,”  said  Tom  blandly,  “ will  you  have  another 
glass  of  brandy  and  water,  or  shall  I call  a policeman  ? ” 

“ Sir,”  sputtered  he,  speaking  prose  at  last,  “ this  gentleman 
has  insulted  me ! He  has  called  my  poetry  nonsense,  and  my 
friend  a fellow.  And  blood  shall  not  wipe  out — what  liquor 
may  !” 

The  hint  was  sufficient : but  ere  he  had  drained  another  glass, 
Mr.  Barker  was  decidedly  incapable  of  managing  his  affairs, 
much  less  theirs ; and  became  withal  exceedingly  quarrelsome, 
returning  angrily  to  the  grievance  of  Briggs  having  been  called 
a fellow ; in  spite  of  all  their  entreaties,  he  talked  himself  into 
a passion,  and  at  last,  to  Campbell’s  extreme  disgust,  rushed  out 
of  the  bar  into  the  street. 

“ This  is  too  vexatious  ! To  have  kept  half-an-hour’s  company 
with  such  an  animal,  and  then  to  have  him  escape  me  after  all ! 
A just  punishment  on  me  for  pandering  to  his  drunkenness.” 

Tom  made  no  answer,  but  went  quietly  to  the  door,  and 
peeped  out. 

“Pay  for  his  liquor,  Major,  and  follow.  Keep  a few  yards 
behind  me ; there  will  be  less  chance  of  his  recognising  us  than 
if  he  saw  us  both  together.” 

“ Why,  where  do  you  think  he’s  going  h ” 

“Hot  home,  I can  see.  Ten  to  one  that  he  will  go  raging  off 
straight  to  Briggs,  to  put  him  on  his  guard  against  us.  Just 
like  a drunkard’s  cunning  it  would  be.  There,  he  has  turned  up 
that  side  street.  How  follow  me  quick.  Oh  that  he  may  only 
keep  his  legs  ! ” 

They  gained  the  bottom  of  that  street  before  he  had  turned 
out  of  it ; and  so  through  another,  and  another,  till  they  ran  him 
to  earth  in  one  of  the  courts  out  of  St.  Martin’s  Lane. 

Into  a doorway  he  went,  and  up  a stair.  Tom  stood  listening 
at  the  bottom,  till  he  heard  the  fellow  knock  at  a door  far  above, 
and  call  out  in  a drunken  tone.  Then  he  beckoned  to  Campbell, 
and  both,  careless  of  what  might  follow,  ran  up-stairs,  and 
pushing  him  aside,  entered  the  room  without  ceremony. 

Their  chances  of  being  on  the  right  scent  were  small  enough, 
considering  that,  though  every  one  was  out  of  town,  there  were 
a million  and  a half  of  people  in  London  at  that  moment;  and, 
unfortunately,  at  least  fifty  thousand  who  would  have  considered 
Mr.  John  Barker  a desirable  visitor;  but  somehow,  in  the  ex- 
citement of  the  chase,  both  had  forgotten  the  chances  against 
them,  and  the  probability  that  they  would  have  to  retire  down- 
stairs again,  apologising  humbly  to  some  -wrathful  Joseph  Buggins, 
whose  convivialities  they  might  have  interrupted.  But  no ; 


416 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


Tom’s  cunning  had,  as  usual,  played  him  true;,  and  as  they 
entered  the  door,  they  beheld  none  other  than  the  lost  Elsley 
Vavasour,  alias  John  Briggs. 

Major  Campbell  advanced  bowing,  hat  in  hand,  with  a cour- 
teous apology  on  his  lips. 

It  was  a low  lean-to  garret ; there  was  a deal  table  and  an  old 
chair  in  it,  but  no  bed.  The  windows  were  broken ; the  paper 
hanging  down  in  strips.  Elsley  was  standing  before  the  empty 
fire-place,  his  hand  in  his  bosom,  as  if  he  had  been  startled  by 
the  scuffle  outside.  He  had  not  shaved  for  some  days. 

So  much  Tom  could  note  ; but  no  more.  He  saw  the  glance 
of  recognition  pass  over  Elsley’s  face,  and  that  an  ugly  one.  He 
saw  him  draw  something  from  his  bosom,  and  spring  like  a cat 
almost  upon  the  table.  A flash — a crack.  He  had  fired  a pistol 
full  in  Campbell’s  face. 

Tom  was  startled,  not  at  the  thing,  but  that  such  a man 
should  have  done  it.  He  had  seen  souls,  and  too  many,  flit  out 
of  the  world  by  that  same  tiny  crack,  in  Californian  taverns, 
Arabian  deserts,  Australian  gullies.  He  knew  all  about  that  : 
but  he  liked  Campbell ; and  he  breathed  more  freely  the  next 
moment,  when  he  saw  him  standing  still  erect,  a quiet  smile  on 
his  face,  and  felt  the  plaister  dropping  from  the  wall  upon  his 
own  head.  The  bullet  had  gone  over  the  Major.  All  was 
right. 

“He  is  not  man  enough  for  a second  shot,”  thought  Tom 
quietly,  “ while  the  Major’s  eye  is  on  him.” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Vavasour,”  he  heard  the  Major  say, 
in  a gentle  unmoved  voice,  “ for  this  intrusion.  I assure  you 
that  there  is  no  cause  for  any  anger  on  your  part ; and  I am 
come  to  entreat  you  to  forget  and  forgive  any  conduct  of  mine 
which  may  have  caused  you  to  mistake  either  me  or  a lady 
whom  I am  unworthy  to  mention.” 

“ I am  glad  the  beggar  fired  at  him,”  thought  Tom.  “ One 
spice  of  danger,  and  he’s  himself  again,  and  will  overawe  the 
poor  cur  by  mere  civility.  I was  afraid  of  some  abject  methodist 
parson  humility,  which  would  give  the  other  party  a handle.” 

Elsley  heard  him  with  a stupified  look,  like  that  of  a trapped 
wild  beast,  in  which  rage,  shame,  suspicion,  and  fear,  were 
mingled  with  the  vacant  glare  of  the  opium-eater’s  eye.  Then 
his  eye  drooped  beneath  Campbell’s  steady  gentle  gaze,  and  he 
looked  uneasily  round  the  room,  still  like  a trapped  wild  beast, 
as  if  for  a hole  to  escape  by ; then  up  again,  but  sidelong,  at 
Major  Campbell. 

“ I assure  you,  Sir,  on  the  word  of  a Christian  and  a soldier, 
that  you  are  labouring  under  an  entire  misapprehension.  Eor 
God’s  sake  and  Mrs.  Vavasour’s  sake,  come  back,  Sir,  to  those 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


417 


who  will  receive  you  with  nothing  hut  affection  ! Your  wife  has 
been  all  but  dead ; she  thinks  of  no  one  but  you,  asks  for  no 
one  but  you.  In  God’s  name,  Sir,  what  are  you  doing  here, 
while  a wife  who  adores  you  is  dying  from  your — I do  not  wish 
to  be  rude,  Sir,  but  let  me  say  at  least — neglect  ? ” 

Elsley  looked  at  him  still  askance,  puzzled,  inquiring.  Sud- 
denly his  great  beautiful  eyes  opened  to  preternatural  wideness, 
as  if  trying  to  grasp  a new  thought.  He  started,  shifted  his 
feet  to  and  fro,  his  arms  straight  down  by  his  sides,  his  fingers 
clutching  after  something.  Then  he  looked  up  hurriedly  again 
at  Campbell ; and  Thurnall  looked  at  him  also  ; and  his  face 
was  as  the  face  of  an  angel. 

“ Miserable  ass  ! ” thought  Tom  , “ if  he  don’t  see  innocence 
in  that  man’s  countenance,  he  wouldn’t  see  it  in  his  own  child’s.” 

Elsley  suddenly  turned  his  back  to  them,  and  thrust  his  hand 
into  his  bosom.  How  was  Tom’s  turn. 

In  a moment  he  had  Yaulted  over  the  table,  and  seized  Elsley’s 
wrist,  ere  he  could  draw  the  second  pistol. 

“Ho,  my  dear  Jack,”  whispered  he  quietly,  “ once  is  enough 
in  a day  ! ” 

“ Hot  for  him,  Tom,  for  myself ! ” moaned  Elsley. 

“ Eor  neither,  dear  lad  ! Let  bygones  be  bygones,  and  do  you 
be  a new  man,  and  go  home  to  Mrs.  Vavasour.” 

“ Hever,  never,  never,  never,  never,  never!”  shrieked  Elsley 
like  a baby,  every  word  increasing  in  intensity,  till  the  whole 
house  rang ; and  then  threw  himself  into  the  crazy  chair,  and 
dashed  his  head  between  his  hands  upon  the  table. 

“ This  is  a case  for  me,  Major  Campbell.  I think  you  had 
better  go  now.” 

“ You  will  not  leave  him  ? ” 

“Ho,  Sir.  It  is  a very  curious  psychological  study,  and  he 
is  a Whitbury  man.” 

Campbell  knew  quite  enough  of  the  would-be  cynical  doctor, 
to  understand  what  all  that  meant.  He  came  up  to  Elsley. 

“ Mr.  Vavasour,  I am  going  to  the  war,  from  which  I expect 
never  to  return.  If  you  believe  me,  give  me  vour  hand  before 
I go.” 

Elsley,  without  lifting  his  head,  beat  on  the  table  with  his 
hand. 

“ I wish  to  die  at  peace  with  you  and  all  the  world.  I am 
innocent  in  word,  in  thought.  I shall  not  insult  another 
person  by  saying  that  she  is  so.  If  you  believe  me,  give  me 
your  hand.” 

Elsley  stretched  his  hand,  his  head  still  buried.  Campbell 
took  it,  and  went  silently  down-stairs. 

“ Is  he  gone  1 ” moaned  he,  after  a while. 

e e • 


418 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


“Yes.” 

“ Does  she — does  she  care  for  him  ? ” 

“ Good  heavens  ! How  did  you  ever  dream  such  an  absurdity  ?” 
Elsley  only  heat  upon  the  table. 

“ She  has  been  ill  ? ” 

“ Is  ill.  She  has  lost  her  child.” 

“ Wliich  ? ” shrieked  Elsley. 

“A  boy  whom  she  should  have  had.” 

Elsley  only  beat  on  the  table ; then — 

“ Give  me  the  bottle,  Tom  ! ” 

“ What  bottle  ? 99 

“ The  laudanum ; — there  in  the  cupboard.” 

“ I shall  do  no  such  thing.  You  are  poisoning  yourself.” 

“ Let  me  then  ! I must,  I tell  you  ! I can  live  on  nothing 
else.  I shall  go  mad  if  I do  not  have  it.  I should  have  been 
mad  by  now.  Nothing  else  keeps  off  these  fits  ; — I feel  one 
coming  now.  Curse  you  ! give  me  the  bottle  ! ” 

“ What  fits  ? ” 

“How  do  I know?  Agony  and  torture — ever  since  I got 
wet  on  that  mountain.” 

Tom  knew  enough  to  guess  his  meaning,  and  felt  Elsley’s 
pulse  and  forehead. 

“ I tell  you  it  turns  every  bone  to  red-hot  iron ! ” almost 
screamed  he. 

“ Neuralgia ; rheumatic,  I suppose,”  said  Tom  to  himself. 
“Well,  this  is  not  the  thing  to  cure  you : but  you  shall  have  it 
to  keep  you  quiet.”  And  he  measured  him  out  a small  dose. 

“ More,  I tell  you,  more  ! ” said  Elsley,  lifting  up  his  head, 
and  looking  at  it. 

“Not  more  while  you  are  with  me.” 

“ With  you  ! Who  the  devil  sent  you  here  ? ” 

“John  Eriggs,  John  Eriggs,  if  I did  not  mean  you  good, 
should  I be  here  now  ? Now  do,  like  a reasonable  man,  tell  me 
what  you  intend  to  do.” 

“ What  is  that  to  you,  or  any  man  ? ” said  Elsley,  writhing 
with  neuralgia. 

“No  concern  of  mine,  of  course  : but  your  poor  wife — you 
must  see  her.’' 

“I  can’t,  I won’t! — that  is,  not  yet!  I tell  you  I cannot 
face  the  thought  of  her,  much  less  the  sight  of  her,  and  her 
family, — that  Valencia ! I’d  rather  the  earth  should  open  and 
swallow  me  ! Don’t  talk  to  me,  I say  ! ” 

And  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  writhed  with  pain, 
while  Thurnall  stood  still  patiently  watching  him,  as  a pointer 
dog  does  a partridge.  He  had  found  his  game,  and  did  not 
intend  to  lose  it. 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


419 


I am  better  now ; quite  well ! ” said  lie,  as  tbe  laudanum 
began  to  work.  44  Yes  ! I’ll  go — that  will  be  it — go  to  * * * * 
at  once.  He’ll  give  me  an  order  for  a magazine  article  ; I’ll  earn 
ten  pounds,  and  then  off  to  Italy.” 

44  If  you  want  ten  pounds,  my  good  fellow,  you  can  have  them 
without  racking  your  brains  over  an  article.” 

Elsley  looked  up  proudly. 

44  I do  not  borrow,  Sir  ! ” 

44  Well — I’ll  give  you  five  for  those  pistols.  They  are  of  no 
use  to  you,  and  I shall  want  a spare  brace  for  the  East.” 

4 4 Ah  ! I forgot  them.  I spent  my  last  money  on  them,” 
said  he  with  a shudder ; 44  but  I won’t  sell  them  to  you  at  a 
fancy  price — no  dealings  between  gentleman  and  gentleman. 
I’ll  go  to  a shop,  and  get  for  them  what  they  are  worth.” 

44  Very  good.  I’ll  go  with  you,  if  you  like.  I fancy  I may 
get  you  a better  price  for  them  than  you  would  yourself : being 
rather  a knowing  one  about  the  pretty  little  barkers.”  And 
Tom  took  his  arm,  and  walked  him  quietly  down  into  the 
street. 

44  If  you  ever  go  up  those  kennel-stairs  again,  friend,”  said  he 
to  himself,  44  my  name’s  not  Tom  Thurnall.” 

They  walked  to  a gunsmith’s  shop  in  the  Strand,  where  Tom 
had  often  dealt,  and  sold  the  pistols  for  some  three  pounds. 

44  How  then  let’s  go  into  333,  and  get  a mutton  chop.” 

44  Ho.” 

Elsley  was  too  shy ; he  was  44  not  fit  to  be  seen.” 

44  Come  to  my  rooms,  then,  in  the  Adelphi,  and  have  a wash 
and  a shave.  It  will  make  you  as  fresh  as  a lark  again, 
and  then  we’ll  send  out  for  the  eatables,  and  have  a quiet 
chat.” 

Elsley  did  not  say  no.  Thurnall  took  the  thing  as  a matter  of 
course,  and  he  was  too  weak  and  tired  to  argue  with  him. 
Beside,  there  was  a sort  of  relief  in  the  company  of  a man  who, 
though  he  knew  all,  chatted  on  to  him  cheerily  and  quietly, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  ; who  at  least  treated  him  as  a sane 
man.  Erom  any  one  else  he  would  have  shrunk,  lest  they 
should  find  him  out  : but  a companion,  who  knew  the  worst, 
at  least  saved  him  suspicion  and  dread.  His  weakness,  now 
that  the  collapse  after  passion  had  come  on,  clung  to  any  human 
friend.  The  very  sound  of  Tom’s  clear  sturdy  voice  seemed 
pleasant  to  him,  after  long  solitude  and  silence.  At  least  it 
kept  off  the  fiends  of  memory. 

Tom,  anxious  to  keep  Elsley ’s  mind  employed  on  some  subject 
which  should  not  be  painful,  began  chatting  about  the  war  and 
its  prospects.  Elsley  soon  caught  the  cue,  and  talked  with  wild 
energy  and  pathos,  opium-fed,  of  the  coming  struggle  between 

e e 2 


420 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


despotism  and  liberty,  the  arising  of  Poland  and  Hungary,  and 
all  the  grand  dreams  which  then  haunted  minds  like  his. 

44  By  Jove  ! ” said  Tom,  “you  are  yourself  again  now.  Why 
don’t  you  put  all  that  into  a book  ? ” 

“I  may  perhaps,”  said  Elsley  proudly. 

44  And  if  it  comes  to  that,  why  not  come  to  the  war,  and  see 
it  for  yourself?  A new  country — one  of  the  finest  in  the  world. 
Hew  scenery,  new  actors, — Why,  Constantinople  itself  is  a poem ! 
Yes,  there  is  another  4 Revolt  of  Islam'  to  be  written  yet.  Why 
don’t  you  become  our  war  poet  ? Come  and  see  the  fighting ; 
for  there’ll  be  plenty  of  it,  let  them  say  what  they  will.  The 
old  bear  is  not  going  to  drop  his  dead  donkey  without  a snap 
and  a hug.  Come  along,  and  tell  people  what  it’s  all  really 
like.  There  will  be  a dozen  Cockneys  writing  battle  songs,  I’ll 
warrant,  who  never  saw  a man  shot  in  their  lives,  not  even 
a hare.  Come  and  give  us  the  real  genuine  grit  of  it, — for  if 
you  can’t,  who  can  ? ” 

44  It  is  a grand  thought ! The  true  war  poets,  after  all,  have 
been  warriors  themselves.  Korner  and  Alcaeus  fought  as  well 
as  sang,  and  sang  because  they  fought.  Old  Homer,  too, — who 
can  believe  that  he  had  not  hewn  his  way  through  the  very 
battles  which  he  describes,  and  seen  every  wound,  every  shape 
of  agony  ? A noble  thought,  to  go  out  with  that  army  against 
the  northern  Anarch,  singing  in  the  van  of  battle,  as  Taillefer 
sang  the  song  of  Roland  before  William’s  knights,  and  to  die 
like  him,  the  proto-martyr  of  the  Crusade,  with  the  melody  yet 
upon  one’s  lips  ! ” 

And  his  face  blazed  up  with  excitement. 

“What  a handsome  fellow  he  is,  after  all,  if  there  were  but 
more  of  him  ! ” said  Tom  to  himself.  44 1 wonder  if  he’d  fight, 
though,  when  the  singing-fever  was  off  him.” 

He  took  Elsley  up-stairs  into  his  bed-room,  got  him  washed 
and  shaved ; and  sent  out  the  woman  of  the  house  for  mutton 
chops  and  stout,  and  began  himself  setting  out  the  luncheon 
table,  while  Elsley  in  the  room  within  chanted  to  himself 
snatches  of  poetry. 

44  The  notion  lias  taken ; he’s  composing  a war  song  already, 
I believe.” 

It  actually  was  so  : but  Elsley’s  brain  was  weak  and  wander- 
ing ; and  he  was  soon  silent ; and  motionless  so  long,  that  Tom 
opened  the  door  and  looked  in  anxiously. 

He  was  sitting  on  a chair,  his  hands  fallen  on  his  lap,  the 
tears  running  down  his  face. 

44  Well  ? ” asked  Tom  smilingly,  not  noticing  the  tears  ; 44  how 
goes  on  the  opera  ? I heard  tlirough  the  door  the  orchestra 
tuning  for  the  prelude,”' 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


421 


Elsley  looked  up  in  his  face  with  a puzzled  piteous  expression. 

“Do  you  know,  Thurnall,  I fancy  at  moments  that  my  mind 
is  not  what  it  was.  Fancies  flit  from  me  as  quickly  as  they 
come.  I had  twenty  verses  five  minutes  ago,  and  now  I cannot 
recollect  one.” 

“No  wonder,”  thought  Tom  to  himself.  “My  dear  fellow, 
recollect  all  that  you  have  suffered  with  this  neuralgia.  Believe 
me,  all  you  want  is  animal  strength.  Chops  and  porter  will 
bring  all  the  verses  back,  or  better  ones  instead  of  them.” 

He  tried  to  make  Elsley  eat ; and  Elsley  tried  himself : but 
failed.  The  moment  the  meat  touched  his  lips  he  loathed  it, 
and  only  courtesy  prevented  his  leaving  the  room  to  escape  the 
smell.  The  laudanum  had  done  its  work  upon  his  digestion. 
He  tried  the  porter,  and  drank  a little : then,  suddenly  stopping, 
he  pulled  out  a phial,  dropped  a heavy  dose  of  his  poison  into 
the  porter,  and  tossed  it  off*. 

“ Sold,  am  I ? ” said  Tom  to  himself.  “ He  must  have  hidden 
the  bottle  as  he  came  out  of  the  room  with  me.  Oh,  the  cunning 
of  those  opium-eaters  ! However,  it  will  keep  him  quiet  just 
now,  and  to  Eaton  Square  I must  go.” 

“ You  had  better  be  quiet  now,  my  dear  fellow,  after  your 
dose  ; talking  will  only  excite  you.  Settle  yourself  on  my  bed, 
and  I’ll  be  back  in  an  hour.” 

So  he  put  Elsley  on  his  bed,  carefully  removing  razors  and 
pistols  (for  he  had  still  his  fears  of  an  outburst  of  passion),  then 
locked  him  in,  ran  down  into  the  Strand,  threw  himself  into  a 
cab  for  Eaton  Square,  and  asked  for  Valencia. 

Campbell  had  been  there  already ; so  Tom  took  care  to  tell 
nothing  which  he  had  not  told,  expecting,  and  rightly,  that  he 
would  not  mention  Elsley’s  having  fired  at  him.  Lucia  was  still 
all  but  senseless,  too  weak  even  to  ask  for  Elsley ; to  attempt 
any  meeting  between  her  and  her  husband  would  be  madness. 

“ What  will  you  do  with  the  unhappy  man,  Mr.  Thurnall  ] ” 

“ Keep  him  under  my  eye,  day  and  night;  till  he  is  either 
rational  again,  or — ” 

“Do  you  think  that  he  may  ? — Oh  my  poor  sister  ! ” 

“ I think  that  he  may  yet  end  very  sadly,  madam.  There  is 
no  use  concealing  the  truth  from  you.  All  I can  promise  is, 
that  I will  treat  him  as  my  own  brother.” 

Valencia  held  out  her  fair  hand  to  the  young  doctor.  He 
stooped,  and  lifted  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  his  lips. 

“ I am  not  worthy  of  such  an  honour,  madam.  I shall  study  to 
deserve  it.”  And  he  bowed  himself  out,  the  same  sturdy,  self- 
confident  Tom,  doing  right,  he  hardly  knew  why,  save  that  it 
was  all  in  the  way  of  business. 

And  now  arose  the  puzzle,  what  to  do  with  Elsley  ? He  had 


4 22 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER. 


set  his  heart  on  going  down  to  Whitbury  the  next  day.  He 
had  been  in  England  nearly  six  months,  and  had  not  yet  seen 
his  father ; his  heart  yearned,  too,  after  the  old  place,  and  Mark 
Arms  worth,  and  many  an  old  friend,  whom  he  might  never  see 
again.  “ However,  that  fellow  I must  see  to,  come  what  will: 
business  first  and  pleasure  afterwards.  If  I make  him  all  right 
— if  I even  get  him  out  of  the  world  decently,  I get  the  Scout- 
bush  interest  on  my  side — though  I believe  I have  it  already. 
Still,  it’s  as  well  to  lay  people  under  as  heavy  an  obligation  as 
possible.  I wish  Miss  Valencia  had  asked  me  whether  Elsley 
wanted  any  money  : it’s  expensive  keeping  him  myself.  How- 
ever, poor  thing,  she  has  other  matters  to  think  of : and  I dare 
say,  never  knew  the  pleasures  of  an  empty  purse.  Here  we  are  ! 
Three-and-sixpence — eh,  Cabman  1 I suppose  you  think  I was 
born  Saturday  night  1 There’s  three  shillings.  How,  don’t  chaff' 
me,  my  excellent  friend,  or  you  will  find  you  have  met  your 
match,  and  a leetle  more  ! ” 

And  Tom  hurried  into  his  rooms,  and  found  Elsley  still 
sleeping. 

He  set  to  work,  packing  and  arranging,  for  with  him  every 
moment  found  its  business ; and  presently  heard  his  patient  call 
faintly  from  the  next  room. 

“ Thurnall ! ” said  he  ; “ I have  been  a long  journey.  I have 
been  to  Whitbury  once  more,  and  followed  my  father  about  his 
garden,  and  sat  upon  my  mother’s  knee.  And  she  taught  me 
one  text,  and  no  more.  Over  and  over  again  she  said  it,  as  she 
looked  down  at  me  with  still  sad  eyes,  the  same  text  which  she 
spoke  the  day  I left  her  for  London.  I never  saw  her  again. 
u By  this,  my  son,  be  admonished ; of  making  of  books  there  is 
no  end ; and  much  study  is  a weariness  of  the  flesh.  Let 
us  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter.  Fear  God,  and 
keep  his  commandments ; for  this  is  the  whole  duty  of  man.’ 
* * * * Yes,  I will  go  down  to  Whitbury,  and 

be  a little  child  once  more.  I will  take  poor  lodgings,  and  crawl 
out  day  by  day,  down  the  old  lanes,  along  the  old  river-banks, 
where  I fed  my  soul  with  fair  and  mad  dreams,  and  reconsider  it 
all  from  the  beginning  ; — and  then  die.  Ho  one  need  know  me  ; 
and  if  they  do,  they  need  not  be  ashamed  of  me,  I trust — ashamed 
that  a poet  has  risen  up  among  them,  to  speak  words  which  have 
been  heard  across  the  globe.  At  least,  they  need  never  know  my 
shame — never  know  that  I have  broken  the  heart  of  an  angel, 
who  gave  herself  to  me,  body  and  soul — attempted  the  life  of  a 
man  whose  shoes  I am  not  worthy  to  unloose — never  know  that  I 
have  killed  my  own  child  ! — that  a blacker  brand  than  Cain’s  is 
on  my  brow  ! — Hever  know — Oh,  my  God,  what  care  I ? Let 
them  know  all,  as  long  as  I can  have  done  with  shams  and  affec- 


THE  THIRTIETH  OF  SEPTEMBER.  423 

fcations,  dreams,  and  vain  ambitions,  and  be  just  my  own  self  once 
more  for  one  day,  and  then  die  ! ” 

And  he  burst  into  convulsive  weeping. 

“ Ho,  Tom,  do  not  comfort  me  ! I ought  to  die,  and  I shall 
die.  I cannot  face  her  again;  let  her  forget  me,  and  find  a 
husband  who  will — and  be  a father  to  the  children  whom  I 
neglected  ! Oh,  my  darlings,  my  darlings  ! If  I could  but  see 
you  once  again : but  no  ! you  too  would  ask  me  where  I had 
been  so  long.  You  too  would  ask  me — your  innocent  faces  at 
least  would — why  I had  killed  your  little  brother  ! — Let  me 
weep  it  out,  Thurnall ; let  me  face  it  all ! This  very  misery  is  a 
comfort,  for  it  will  kill  me  all  the  sooner.” 

“ If  you  really  mean  to  go  to  Whitbury,  my  poor  dear  fellow,” 
said  Tom  at  last,  “I  will  start  with  you  to-morrow  morning. 
Tor  I too  must  go  ; I must  see  my  father.” 

“ You  will  really  h ” asked  Elsley,  who  began  to  cling  to  him 
like  a child. 

“T  will  indeed.  Believe  me,  you  are  right ; you  will  find 
friends  there,  and  admirers  too.  I know  one.” 

“ You  do  % ” asked  he,  looking  up. 

“ Mary  Armsworth,  the  banker’s  daughter.” 

“ What ! That  purse-proud,  vulgar  man  ? ” 

“ Don’t  be  afraid  of  him.  A truer  and  more  delicate  heart 
don’t  beat.  Ho  one  has  more  cause  to  say  so  than  I.  He  will 
receive  you  with  open  arms,  and  need  be  told  no  more  than  is 
necessary ; while  as  his  friend,  you  may  defy  gossip,  and  do  just 
what  you  like.” 

Tom  slipped  out  that  afternoon,  paid  Elsley’s  pittance  of  rent 
at  his  old  lodgings ; bought  him  a few  necessary  articles,  and  lent 
him,  without  saying  anything,  a few  more.  Elsley  sat  all  day  as 
one  in  a dream,  moaning  to  himself  at  intervals,  and  following 
Tom  vacantly  with  his  eyes,  as  he  moved  about  the  room.  Ex- 
citement, misery,  and  opium,  were  fast  wearing  out  body  and 
mind,  and  Tom  put  him  to  bed  that  evening,  as  he  would  have 
put  a child. 

Tom  walked  out  into  the  Strand  to  smoke  in  the  fresh  air,  and 
think,  in  spite  of  himself,  of  that  fair  saint  from  whom  he  was  so 
perversely  flying.  Gay  girls  slithered  past  him,  looked  round  at 
him,  but  in  vain ; those  two  great  sad  eyes  hung  in  his  fancy, 
and  he  could  see  nothing  else.  Ah — if  she  had  but  given  him 
back  his  money — why,  what  a fool  he  would  have  made  of  him- 
self ! Better  as  it  was.  He  was  meant  to  be  a vagabond  and  an 
adventurer  to  the  last ; and  perhaps  to  find  at  last  the  luck  which 
had  flitted  away  before  him. 

He  passed  one  of  the  theatre  doors ; there  was  a group  out- 
side, more  noisy  and  more  earnest  than  such  groups  are  wont 


424 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


to  be  ; and  ere  he  could  pass  through  them,  a shout  from  within 
rattled  the  doors  with  its  mighty  pulse,  and  seemed  to  shake 
the  very  walls.  Another ; and  another  ! — What  was  it  ] Fire  ? 

No.  It  was  the  news  of  Alma. 

And  the  group  surged  to  and  fro  outside,  and  talked,  and 
questioned,  and  rejoiced  ; and  smart  gents  forgot  their  vulgar 
pleasures,  and  looked  for  a moment  as  if  they  too  could  have 
fought — had  fought — at  Alma ; and  sinful  girls  forgot  their 
shame,  and  looked  more  beautiful  than  they  had  done  for  many 
a day,  as,  beneath  the  flaring  gas-light,  their  faces  glowed  for  a 
while  with  noble  enthusiasm  and  woman’s  sacred  pity,  while 
they  questioned  Tom,  taking  him  for  an  officer,  as  to  whether  he 
thought  there  were  many  killed. 

“ I am  no  officer : but  I have  been  in  many  a battle,  and 
I know  the  Russians  well,  and  have  seen  how  they  fight ; and 
there  is  many  a brave  man  killed,  and  many  a one  more  will  be.” 

“ Oh,  does  it  hurt  them  much  h ” asked  one  poor  thing. 

“ Not  often,”  quoth  Tom. 

“ Thank  God,  thank  God ! ” and  she  turned  suddenly  away, 
and  with  the  impulsive  nature  of  her  class,  burst  into  violent 
sobbing  and  weeping. 

Poor  thing  ! perhaps  among  the  men  who  fought  and  fell  that 
day  was  he  to  whom  she  owed  the  curse  of  her  young  life ; and 
after  him  her  lonely  heart  went  forth  once  more,  faithful  even  in 
the  lowest  pit. 

“ You  are  strange  creatures,  women,  women  !”  thought  Tom  : 
“ but  I knew  that  many  a year  ago.  Now  then — the  game  is 
growing  fast  and  furious,  it  seems.  Oh,  that  I may  find  myself 
soon  in  the  thickest  of  it ! ” 

So  said  Tom  Thurnall ; and  so  said  Major  Campbell,  too,  that 
night,  as  he  prepared  everything  to  start  next  morning  to  South- 
ampton. “ The  better  the  day,  the  better  the  deed,”  quoth  he. 
u When  a man  is  travelling  to  a better  world,  he  need  not  be 
afraid  of  starting  on  a Sunday.” 


CHAPTER  NXY. 

THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

Tom  and  Elsley  are  safe  at  Whitbury  at  last ; and  Tom,  ere  he 
has  seen  his  father,  has  packed  Elsley  safe  away  in  lodgings  with 
an  old  dame  whom  he  can  trust.  Then  he  asks  his  way  to  his 
father’s  new  abode ; a small  old-fashioned  house,  with  low  bay 
windows  jutting  out  upon  the  narrow  pavement. 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


425 


Tom  stops,  and  looks  in  the  window.  His  father  is  sitting 
close  to  it,  in  his  arm-chair,  his  hands  upon  his  knees,  his  face 
lifted  to  the  sunlight,  with  chin  slightly  outstretched,  and  his 
pale  eyes  feeling  for  the  light.  The  expression  would  have  been 
painful,  but  for  its  perfect  sweetness  and  resignation.  His 
countenance  is  not,  perhaps,  a strong  one ; but  its  delicacy,  and 
calm,  and  the  high  forehead,  and  the  long  white  locks,  are  most 
venerable.  With  a blind  man’s  exquisite  sense,  he  feels  Tom’s 
shadow  fall  on  him,  and  starts,  and  calls  him  by  name ; for  he 
has  been  expecting  him,  and  thinking  of  nothing  .else  all  the 
morning,  and  takes  for  granted  that  it  must  be  he. 

In  another  moment  Tom  is  at  his  father’s  side.  What  need  to 
describe  the  sacred  joy  of  those  first  few  minutes,  even  if  it  were 
possible1?  But  unrestrained  tenderness  between  man  and  man, 
rare  as  it  is,  and,  as  it  were,  unaccustomed  to  itself,  has  no 
passionate  fluency,  no  metaphor  or  poetry,  such  as  man  pours  out 
to  woman,  and  woman  again  to  man.  All  its  language  lies  in 
the  tones,  the  looks,  the  little  half-concealed  gestures,  hints  which 
pass  themselves  off  modestly  in  jest ; and  such  was  Tom’s  first 
interview  with  his  father;  till  the  old  Isaac,  having  felt  Tom’s 
head  and  hands  again  and  again,  to  be  sure  whether  it  were  his 
very  son  or  no,  made  him  sit  down  by  him,  holding  him  still 
fast,  and  began — 

“ How,  tell  me,  tell  me,  while  Jane  gets  you  something  to  eat. 
Ho,  Jane,  you  musn’t  talk  to  Master  Tom  yet,  to  bother  about 
how  much  he’s  grown  ; — nonsense,  I must  have  him  all  to  my- 
self, Jane.  Go  and  get  him  some  dinner.  How,  Tom,”  as  if  he 
was  afraid  of  losing  a moment;  “you  have  been  a dear  boy  to 
write  to  me  every  week ; but  there  are  so  many  questions  which 
only  word  of  mouth  will  answer,  and  I have  stored  up  dozens  of 
them  ! I want  to  know  what  a coral  reef  really  looks  like,  and 
if  you  saw  any  trepangs  upon  them  ? And  what  sort  of  strata  is 
the  gold  really  in  h And  you  saw  one  of  those  giant  rays ; I want 
a whole  hour’s  talk  about  the  fellow.  And — What  an  old  babbler 
I am  ! talking  to  you  when  you  should  be  talking  to  me.  How 
begin.  Let  us  have  the  trepangs  first.  Are  they  real  Holothu- 
rians  or  not  ? ” 

And  Tom  began,  and  told  for  a full  half-hour,  interrupted  then 
by  some  little  comment  of  the  old  man’s,  which  proved  how  pro- 
digious was  the  memory  within,  imprisoned  and  forced  to  feed 
upon  itself. 

“ You  seem  to  know  more  about  Australia  than  I do,  father,” 
said  Tom  at  last. 

“Ho,  child ; but  Mary  Armsworth,  God  bless  her  ! comes  down 
here  almost  every  evening  to  read  your  letters  to  me ; and  she 
has  been  reading  to  me  a book  of  Mrs.  Lee’s  Adventures  in  Aus- 


426 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


tralia,  which  reads  like  a novel ; delicious  hook — to  me  at  least. 
Why,  there  is  her  step  outside,  I do  believe,  and  her  father’s  with 
her ! ” 

The  lighter  woman’s  step  was  inaudible  to  Tom ; hut  the  heavy, 
deliberate  waddle  of  the  hanker  was  not.  He  opened  the  house- 
door,  and  then  the  parlour-door,  without  knocking ; hut  when  he 
saw  the  visitor,  he  stopped  on  the  threshold  with  outstretched 
arms. 

4 4 Hillo,  ho  ! who  have  we  here?  Our  prodigal  son  returned, 
with  his  pockets  full  of  nuggets  from  the  diggings.  Oh,  mum’s 
the  word,  is  it?”  as  Tom  laid  his  finger  on  his  lips.  44  Come 
here,  then,  and  let’s  have  a look  at  you  ! ” And  he  catches  both 
Tom’s  hands  in  his,  and  almost  shakes  them  off.  44 1 knew  you 
were  coming,  old  hoy  ! Mary  told  me — she’s  in  all  the  old  man’s 
secrets.  Come  along,  Mary,  and  see  your  old  playfellow.  She 
has  got  a little  fruit  for  the  old  gentleman.  Mary,  where  are 
you?  always  colloguing  with  Jane.” 

Mary  comes  in  : a little  dumpty  body,  with  a yellow  face, 
and  a red  nose,  the  smile  of  an  angel,  and  a heart  full  of  many 
little  secrets  of  other  people’s — and  of  one  great  one  of  her  own, 
which  is  no  business  of  any  man’s — and  with  fifty  thousand 
pounds  as  her  portion,  for  she  is  an  only  child.  But  no  man 
will  touch  that  fifty  thousand ; for  44  no  one  would  marry  me 
for  myself,”  says  Mary ; 44  and  no  one  shall  marry  me  for  my 
money.” 

So  she  greets  Tom  shyly  and  humbly,  without  looking  in  his 
face,  yet  very  cordially ; and  then  slips  away  to  deposit  on  the 
table  a noble  pine-apple. 

44  A little  bit  of  fruit  from  her  greenhouse,”  says  the  old  man 
in  a disparaging  tone  : 44  and,  oh  Jane,  bring  me  a saucer.  Here’s 
a sprat  I just  capered  out  of  Hemmelford  mill-pit ; perhaps  the 
Doctor  would  like  it  fried  for  supper,  if  it’s  big  enough  not  to 
fall  through  the  gridiron.” 

Jane,  who  knows  Mark  Armsworth’s  humour,  brings  in  the 
largest  dish  in  the  house,  and  Mark  pulls  out  of  his  basket 
a great  three-pound  trout. 

44  Aba  ! my  young  rover ; Old  Mark’s  right  hand  hasn’t 
forgot  its  cunning,  eh  ? And  this  is  the  month  for  them  ; fish 
all  quiet  now.  When  fools  go  a-shooting,  wise  men  go  a-fishing ! 
Eh  ? Come  here,  and  look  me  over.  How  do  I wear,  eh  ? As 
like  a Muscovy  duck  as  ever,  you  young  rogue  ? Do  you  recol- 
lect asking  me,  at  the  Club  dinner,  wby  I was  like  a Muscovy 
duck?  Because  I was  a fat  thing  in  green  velveteen,  with  a 
bald  red  head,  that  was  always  waddling  about  the  river  bank. 
Ah,  those  were  days ! We’ll  have  some  more  of  them.  Come 
up  to-night  and  try  the  old  ’21  bin.” 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  427 

“ I must  have  him  myself  to-night ; indeed  I must,  Mark/’ 
says  the  Doctor. 

“ All  to  yourself,  you  selfish  old  rogue  ” 
u Why — no — ” 

“ We’ll  come  down,  then,  Mary  and  I,  and  bring  the  ’21  with 
us,  and  hear  all  his  cock-and-bull  stories.  Full  of  travellers’ 
lies  as  ever,  eh  ? Well,  I’ll  come,  and  smoke  my  pipe  with  you. 
Always  the  same  old  Mark,  my  lad,”  nudging  Tom  with  his 
elbow;  “ one  fellow  comes  and  borrows  my  money,  and  goes  out 
and  calls  me  a stingy  old  hunks  because  I won’t  let  him  cheat 
me  ; another  comes,  and  eats  my  pines,  and  drinks  my  port,  goes 
home,  and  calls  me  a purse-proud  upstart,  because  he  can’t  match 
’em.  Never  mind  ; old  Mark’s  old  Mark  ; sound  in  the  heart, 
and  sound  in  the  liver,  just  the  same  as  thirty  years  ago,  and 
will  be  till  he  takes  his  last  quietus  est — 

‘ And  drops  into  his  grassy  nest.  ’ 

Bye,  bye,  Doctor  ! Come,  Mary  ! ” 

And  out  he  toddled,  with  silent  little  Mary  at  his  heels. 

“ Old  Mark  wears  well,  body  and  soul,”  said  Tom. 

“ He  is  a noble,  generous  fellow,  and  as  delicate-hearted  as 
a woman  withal,  in  spite  of  his  conceit  and  roughness.  Fifty 
and  odd  years  now,  Tom,  have  we  been  brothers,  and  I never 
found  him  change.  And  brothers  we  shall  be,  I trust,  a few 
years  more,  till  I see  you  back  again  from  the  East,  comfortably 
settled.  And  then — ” 

“ Don’t  talk  of  that,  Sir,  please ! ” said  Tom,  quite  quickly 
and  sharply.  “ How  ill  poor  Mary  looks  ! ” 

“ So  they  say,  poor  child  ; and  one  hears  it  in  her  voice. 
Ah,  Tom,  that  girl  is  an  angel ; she  has  been  to  me  daughter, 
doctor,  clergyman,  eyes  and  library  ; and  would  have  been  nurse 
too,  if  it  had  not  been  for  making  old  Jane  jealous.  But  she  is 
ill.  Some  love  affair,  I suppose — ” 

“ How  quaint  it  is,  that  the  father  has  kept  all  the  animal 
vigour  to  himself,  and  transmitted  none  to  the  daughter.” 

“ He  has  not  kept  the  soul  to  himself,  Tom,  or  the  eyes  either. 
She  will  bring  me  in  wild  flowers,*  and  talk  to  me  about  them, 
till  I fancy  I can  see  them  as  well  as  ever.  Ah,  well  ! It  is 
a sweet  world  still,  Tom,  and  there  are  sweet  souls  in  it.  A 
sweet  world  : I was  too  fond  of  looking  at  it  once,  I suppose,  so 
God  took  away  my  sight,  that  I might  learn  to  look  at  Him.” 
And  the  old  man  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  was  quite  still  awhile.  And  Tom 
watched  him,  and  thought  that  he  would  give  all  his  cunning 
and  power  to  be  like  that  old  man.' 

Then  Jane  came  in,  and  laid  the  doth, — a coarse  one  enough, 


428 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


— and  Tom  picked  a cold  mutton  bone  with  a steel  fork,  and 
drank  his  pint  of  beer  from  the  public-house,  and  lighted  his 
father’s  pipe,  and  then  his  own,  and  vowed  that  he  had  never 
dined  so  well  in  his  life,  and  began,  his  traveller’s  stories  again. 

And  in  the  evening  Mark  came  in,  with  a bottle  of  the  ’21  in 
his  coat-tail  pocket ; and  the  three  sat  and  chatted,  while  Mary 
brought  out  her  work,  and  stitched  listening  silently,  till  it  was 
time  to  lead  the  old  man  up- stairs. 

Tom  put  his  father  to  bed,  and  then  made  a hesitating 
request — 

“ There  is  a poor  sick  man  whom  I brought  down  with  me, 
Sir,  if  you  could  spare  me  half-an-hour.  It  really  is  a profes- 
sional case  ; he  is  under  my  charge,  I may  say.” 

“ What  is  it,  boyT’ 

“ Well,  laudanum  and  a broken  heart.” 

“Exercise  andmmmonia  for  the  first.  Eor  the  second,  God’s 
grace  and  the  grave ; and  those  latter  medicines  you  can’t  exhibit, 
my  dear  boy.  Well,  as  it  is  professional  duty,  I suppose  you 
must  : but  don’t  exceed  the  hour ; I shall  lie  awake  till  you 
return,  and  then  you  must  talk  me  to  sleep.” 

So  Tom  went  out  and  homeward  with  Mark  and  Mary,  for  their 
roads  lay  together ; and  as  he  went,  he  thought  good  to  tell  them 
somewhat  of  the  history  of  John  Briggs,  alias  Elsley  Yavasour. 

“ Poor  fool ! ” said  Mark,  who  listened  in  silence  to  the  end. 
“ Why  didn’t  he  mind  his  bottles,  and  just  do  what  Heaven  sent 
him  to  do  ? Is  he  in  want  of  the  rhino,  Tom  ? ” 

“ He  had  not  five  shillings  left  after  he  had  paid  his  fare  ; and 
he  refuses  to  ask  his  wife  for  a farthing.” 

“ Quite  right — very  proper  spirit.”  And  Mark  walked  on  in 
silence  a few  minutes. 

“ I say,  Tom,  a fool  and  his  money  are  soon  parted.  There’s 
a five-pound  note  for  him,  you  begging,  insinuating  dog,  and  be 
hanged  to  you  both  ! I shall  die  in  the  workhouse  at  this  rate.” 

“ Oh,  father,  you  will  never  miss — ” 

“Who  told  you  I thought  I should,  pray?  Don’t  you  go 
giving  another  five  pounds  out  of  your  pocket-money  behind  m v 
back,  ma’am.  I know  your  tricks  of  old.  Tom,  I’ll  come  and 
see  the  poor  beggar  to-morrow  with  you,  and  call  him  Mr. 
Yavasour — Lord  Yavasour,  if  he  likes — if  you’ll  warrant  me 
against  laughing  in  his  face.”  And  the  old  man  did  laugh,  till 
he  stopped  and  held  his  sides  again. 

“ Oh,  father,  father,  don’t  be  so  cruel.  Remember  how 
wretched  the  poor  man  is.” 

“ I can’t  think  of  anything  but  old  Bolus’s  boy  turned  poet. 
Why  did  you  tell  me,  Tom,  you  bad  fellow  ? It’s  too  much  for 
a man  at  my  time  of  life,  and  after  his  dinner  too.” 


THE  BANKER  AND  xd3S  DAUGHTER.  42 D 

And  with  that  ho  opened  the  little  gate  by  the  side  of  the 
grand  one,  and  turned  to  ask  Tom — 

“ Won’t  come  in,  boy,  and  have  one  more  cigar  V1 
“ I promised  my  father  to  be  back  as  quickly  as  possible.” 
u Good  lad — that’s  the  plan  to  go  on — 

‘ You’ll  be  churchwarden  before  all’s  over, 

And  so  arrive  at  wealth  and  fame.’ 

Instead  of  writing  po-o-o-etry  ! Do  you  recollect  that  morning, 
and  the  black  draught  h Oh  dear,  my  side  ! ” 

And  Tom  heard  him  keckling  to  himself  up  the  garden  walk 
to  his  house ; went  off  to  see  that  Elsley  was  safe  ; and  then 
home,  and  slept  like  a top  ; no  wonder,  for  he  would  have  done 
so  the  night  before  his  execution. 

And  what  was  little  Mary  doing  all  the  while  ? 

She  had  gone  up  to  the  room,  after  telling  her  father,  with  a 
kiss,  not  to  forget  to  say  his  prayers.  And  then  she  fed  her 
canary  bird,  and  made  up  the  Persian  cat’s  bed  ; and  then  sat 
long  at  the  open  window,  gazing  out  over  the  shadow-dappled 
lawn,  away  to  the  poplars  sleeping  in  the  moonlight,  and  the 
shining  silent  stream,  and  the  shining  silent  stars,  till  she  seemed 
to  become  as  one  of  them,  and  a quiet  heaven  within  her  eyes 
took  counsel  with  the  quiet  heaven  above.  And  then  she  drew 
in  suddenly,  as  if  stung  by  some  random  thought,  and  shut  the 
window.  A picture  hung  over  her  mantel-piece — a portrait  of 
her  mother,  who  had  been  a country  beauty  in  her  time.  She 
glanced  at  it,  and  then  at  the  looking-glass.  Would  she  have 
given  her  fifty  thousand  pounds  to  have  exchanged  her  face  for 
such  a face  as  that  h 

She  caught  up  her  little  Thomas  a Kempis,  marked  through 
and  through  with  lines  and  references,  and  sat  and  read  stead- 
fastly for  an  hour  and  more.  That  was  her  school,  as  it  has 
been  the  school  of  many  a noble  soul.  And,  for  some  cause  or 
other,  that  stinging  thought  returned  no  more  ; and  she  knelt 
and  prayed  like  a little  child  ; and  like  a little  child  slept  sweetly 
all  the  night,  and  was  away  before  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
after  feeding  the  canary  and  the  cat,  to  old  women  who  wor- 
shipped her  as  their  ministering  angel,  and  said,  looking  after 
her : “ That  dear  Miss  Mary,  pity  she  is  so  plain ! Such  a 
match  as  she  might  have  made  ! Put  she’ll  be  handsome 
enough  when  she  is  a blessed  angel  in  heaven.” 

Ah,  true  sisters  of  mercy,  w7hom  the  world  sneers  at  as  “ old 
maids,”  if  you  pour  out  on  cats  and  dogs  and  parrots,  a little  of 
the  love  which  is  yearning  to  spend  itself  on  children  of  your 
own  flesh  and  blood  ! As  long  as  such  as  you  wralk  this  lower 
world,  one  needs  no  Butler’s  Analogy  to  prove  to  us  that  there 


430 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


is  another  world,  where  such  as  you  will  have  a fuller  and  a 
fairer  (I  dare  not  say  a jus  ter)  portion. 

* * & # * * 

Next  morning  Mark  started  with  Toni  to  call  on  Elsley, 
chatting  and  puffing  all  the  way. 

“ I’ll  butter  him,  trust  me.  Nothing  comforts  a poor  beggar 
like  a bit  of  praise  when  he’s  down ; and  all  fellows  that  take 
to  writing  are  as  greedy  after  it  as  trout  after  the  drake,  even  if 
they  only  scribble  in  county  newspapers.  I’ve  watched  them 
when  I’ve  been  electioneering,  my  bo}r ! ” 

“ Only,”  said  Tom,  “ don’t  be  angry  with  him  if  he  is  proud 
and  peevish.  The  poor  fellow  is  all  but  mad  with  misery.” 

“ Poh ! quarrel  with  him  ? whom  did  I ever  quarrel  with  ? 
If  he  barks,  I’ll  stop  his  mouth  with  a good  dinner.  I suj^pose 
he’s  gentleman  enough  to  invite  ? ” 

“ As  much  a gentleman  as  you  and  I ; not  of  the  very  first 
water,  of  course.  Still  he  eats  like  other  people,  and  don’t 
break  many  glasses  during  a sitting.  Think  ! he  couldn’t  have 
been  a very  great  cad  to  marry  a nobleman’s  daughter ! ” 

“ Why,  no.  Speaks  well  for  him,  that,  considering  his 
breeding.  He  must  be  a very  clever  fellow  to  have  caught  the 
trick  of  the  thing  so  soon.” 

“And  so  he  is,  a very  clever  fellow ; too  clever  by  half;  and 
a very  fine-hearted  fellow,  too,  in  spite  of  his  conceit  and  his 
temper.  But  that  don’t  prevent  his  being  an  awful  fool ! ” 

“You  speak  like  a book,  Tom  ! ” said  old  Mark,  clapping  him 
on  the  back.  “ Look  at  me  ! no  one  can  say  I was  ever  troubled 
with  genius  : but  I can  show  my  money,  pay  my  way,  eat  my 
dinner,  kill  my  trout,  hunt  my  hounds,  help  a lame  dog  over  a 
stile”  (which  was  Mark’s  phrase  for  doing  a generous  thing), 
“ and  thank  God  for  all ; and  who  wants  more,  I should  like  to 
know  ? But  here  we  are — you  go  up  first  ! ” 

They  found  Elsley  crouched  up  over  the  empty  grate,  his  head 
in  his  hands,  and  a few  scraps  of  paper  by  him,  on  which  he  had 
been  trying  to  scribble.  He  did  not  look  up  as  they  came  in, 
but  gave  a sort  of  impatient  half-turn,  as  if  angry  at  being 
disturbed.  Tom  was  about  to  announce  the  banker ; but  he 
announced  himself. 

“ Come  to  do  myself  the  honour  of  calling  on  you,  Mr.  Vava- 
sour. I am  sorry  to  see  you  so  poorly ; I hope  our  Whitbury 
air  will  set  all  right.” 

“You  mistake  me,  Sir;  my  name  is  Briggs!”  said  Elsley, 
without  turning  his  head ; but  a moment  after  he  looked  up 
angrily. 

“ Mr.  Arms  worth  ? I beg  your  pardon,  Sir ; but  what  brings 


THE  HANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  431 

you  here  ? Are  you  come,  Sir,  to  use  the  rich  successful  man’s 
right,  and  lecture  me  in  my  misery  ? ” 

“ Ton  my  word,  Sir,  you  must  have  forgotten  old  Mark 
Armswortli,  indeed,  if  you  fancy  him  capable  of  any  such  dirt. 
No,  Sir,  I came  to  pay  my  respects  to  you,  Sir,  hoping  that 
you’d  come  up  and  take  a family  dinner.  I could  do  no  less,” 
ran  on  the  banker,  seeing  that  Elsley  was  preparing  a peevish 
answer,  44  considering  the  honour  that,  I hear,  you  have  been  to 
your  native  town.  A very  distinguished  person,  our  friend  Tom 
tells  me ; and  we  ought  to  be  proud  of  you,  and  behave  to  you 
as  you  deserve,  for  I am  sure  we  don’t  send  too  many  clever 
fellows  out  of  Whitbury.” 

“ Would  that  you  had  never  sent  me  ! ” said  Elsley  in  his 
bitter  way. 

“ All,  Sir,  that’s  matter  of  opinion  ! You  would  never  have 
been  heard  of  down  here,  never  have  had  justice  done  you,  I 
mean ; for  heard  of  you  have  been.  There’s  my  daughter  has 
read  your  poems  again  and  again — always  quoting  them ; and 
very  pretty  they  sound  too.  Poetry  is  not  in  my  line,  of  course ; 
still,  it’s  a credit  to  a man  to  do  anything  well,  if  he  has  the  gift  ; 
and  she  tells  me  that  you  have  it,  and  plenty  of  it.  And  though 
she’s  no  fine  lady,  thank  Heaven,  I’ll  back  her  for  good  sense 
against  any  woman.  Come  up,  Sir,  and  judge  for  yourself  if  I 
don’t  speak  the  truth ; she  will  be  delighted  to  meet  you,  and 
bade  me  say  so.” 

By  this  time  good  Mark  had  talked  himself  out  of  breath ; 
and  Elsley  flushing  up,  as  of  old,  at  a little  praise,  began  to 
stammer  an  excuse.  44  His  nerves  were  so  weak,  and  his  spirits 
so  broken  with  late  troubles.” 

a My  dear  Sir,  that’s  the  very  reason  I want  you  to  come.  A 
bottle  of  port  will  cure  the  nerves,  and  a pleasant  chat  the 
spirits.  Nothing  like  forgetting  all  for  a little  time  ; and  then 
to  it  again  with  a fresh  lease  of  strength,  and  beat  it  at  last  like 
a man.” 

44  Too  late,  my  dear  Sir ; I must  pay  the  penalty  of  my  own 
folly,”  said  Elsley,  really  won  by  the  man’s  cordiality. 

44  Never  too  late,  Sir,  while  there’s  life  left  in  us.  And,”  he 
went  on  in  a gentler  tone,  4 4 if  we  all  were  to  pay  for  our  own 
follies,  or  he  down  and  die  when  we  saw  them  coming  full  cry 
at  our  heels,  where  would  any  one  of  us  be  by  now  ? I have 
been  a fool  in  my  time,  young  gentleman,  more  than  once  or 
twice ; and  that  too  when  I was  old  enough  to  be  your  father ; 
and  down  I went,  and  deserved  what  I got : but  my  rule  always 
was — Eight  fair  ; fall  soft ; know  when  you’ve  got  enough ; and 
don’t  cry  out  when  you’ve  got  it : but  just  go  home ; train  again; 
and  say — better  luck  next  fight.”  And  so  old  Mark’s  sermon 


432 


TIIE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


ended  (as  most  of  them  did)  in  somewhat  Socratic  allegory, 
savouring  rather  of  the  market  than  of  the  study ; but  Elsley 
understood  him,  and  looked  up  with  a smile. 

“ You  too  are  somewhat  of  a poet  in  your  way,  I see,  Sir  ! ” 

“ I never  thought  to  live  to  hear  that,  Sir.  1 can’t  doubt  now 
that  you  are  cleverer  than  your  neighbours,  for  you  have  found 
out  something  which  they  never  did.  But  you  will  come  ? — for 
that’s  my  business.” 

Elsley  looked  inquiringly  at  Tom ; he  had  learnt  now  to  con- 
sult his  eye,  and  lean  on  him  like  a child.  Tom  looked  a stout 
yes,  and  Elsley  said  languidly, — 

“ You  have  given  me  so  much  new  and  good  advice  in  a few 
minutes,  Sir,  that  I must  really  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  coming 
and  hearing  more.” 

“ Well  done,  our  side!”  cried  old  Mark.  “ Dinner  at  half-past 
five.  No  London  late  hours  here,  Sir.  Miss  Arms  worth  will  be 
out  of  her  mind  when  she  hears  you’re  coming.” 

And  off  he  went. 

“ Do  you  think  he’ll  come  up  to  the  scratch,  Tom  i ” 

“ I am  very  much  afraid  his  courage  will  fail  him.  I will  see 
him  again,  and  bring  him  up  with  me  : but  now,  my  dear  Mr. 
Armsworth,  do  remember  one  thing;  that  if  you  go  on  with  him 
at  your  usual  rate  of  hospitality,  the  man  will  as  surely  be  drunk, 
as  his  nerves  and  brain  are  all  but  ruined ; and  if  he  is  so,  he 
will  most  probably  destroy  himself  to-morrow  morning.” 

“ Destroy  himself1?  ” 

“ He  will.  The  shame  of  making  a fool  of  himself  just  now 
before  you  will  be  more  than  he  could  bear.  So  be  stingy  for 
once.  He  will  not  wish  for  it  unless  you  press  him  ; but  if  he 
talks  (and  he  will  talk  after  the  first  half-hour),  he  will  forget 
himself,  and  half  a bottle  will  make  him  mad ; and  then  I won’t 
answer  for  the  consequences.” 

“ Good  gracious ! why,  these  poets  want  as  tender  handling 
as  a bag  of  gunpowder  over  the  fire.” 

“ You  speak  like  a book  there  in  your  turn.”  And  Tom  went 
home  to  his  father. 

He  returned  in  due  time.  A new  difficulty  had  arisen.  Elsley 
under  the  excitement  of  expectation,  had  gone  out  and  deigned 
to  buy  laudanum — so  will  an  unhealthy  craving  degrade  a man  ! 
— of  old  Bolus  himself,  who  luckily  did  not  recognise  him.  He 
had  taken  his  fullest  dose,  and  was  now  unable  to  go  anywhere 
or  do  anything.  Tom  did  not  disturb  him  : but  went  away, 
sorely  perplexed,  and  very  much  minded  to  tell  a white  lie  to 
Armsworth,  in  whose  eyes  this  would  be  an  offence — not  un- 
pardonable, for  nothing  with  him  was  unpardonable,  save  lying 
or  cruelty — but  very  grievous.  If  a man  had  drunk  too  much 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


433 


wine  in  his  house,  he  would  have  simply  kept  his  eye  on  him 
afterwards,  as  a fool  who  did  not  know  when  he  had  his 
“ quotum hut  laudanum  drinking, — involving,  too,  the  break- 
ing of  an  engagement,  which,  well  managed,  might  have  been  of 
immense  use  to  Elsley, — was  a very  different  matter.  So  Tom 
knew  not  what  to  say  or  do ; and  not  knowing,  determined  to 
wait  on  Providence,  smartened  himself  as  best  he  could,  ^vent  up 
to  the  great  house,  and  found  Miss  Mary. 

“ I’ll  tell  her.  She  will  manage  it  somehow,  if  she  is  a 
woman ; much  more  if  she  is  an  angel,  as  my  father  says.” 

Mary  looked  very  much  shocked  and  grieved ; answered 
hardly  a word ; but  said  at  last,  “ Come  in,  while  I go  and  see 
my  father.”  He  came  into  the  smart  drawing-room,  which  he 
could  see  was  seldom  used ; for  Mary  lived  in  her  own  room, 
her  father  in  his  counting-house,  or  in  his  “ den.”  In  ten 
minutes  she  came  down.  Tom  thought  she  had  been  crying. 

“ I have  settled  it.  Poor  unhappy  man  ! We  will  talk  of 
something  more  pleasant.  Tell  me  about  your  shipwreck,  and 
that  place, — Aberalva,  is  it  not  ? What  a pretty  name  ! ” 

Tom  told  her,  wondering  then,  and  wondering  long  afterwards, 
how  she  had  “ settled  it  ” with  her  father.  She  chatted  on  art- 
lessly enough,  till  the  old  man  came  in,  and  to  dinner,  in  capital 
humour,  without  saying  one  word  of  Elsley. 

“ IIow  has  the  old  lion  been  tamed  ? ” thought  Tom.  “ The 
two  greatest  affronts  you  could  offer  him  in  old  times  were,  to 
break  an  engagement,  and  to  despise  his  good  cheer.”  He  did 
not  know  what  the  quiet  oil  on  the  waters  of  such  a spirit  as 
Mary’s  can  effect. 

The  evening  passed  pleasantly  enough  till  nine,  in  chatting 
over  old  times,  and  listening  to  the  history  of  every  extraordinary 
trout  and  fox  which  had  been  killed  within  twenty  miles,  when 
the  footboy  entered  with  a somewhat  scared  face. 

“Please,  Sir,  is  Mr.  Yavasour  here?” 

“ Here  ? Who  wants  him  ? ” 

“ Mrs.  Brown,  Sir,  in  Hemmelford  Street.  Says  he  lodges 
with  her,  and  has  been  to  see  for  him  at  Dr.  Thurnall’s.” 

“ I think  you  had  better  go,  Mr.  Thurnall,”  said  Mary,  quietly. 
“ Indeed  you  had,  boy.  Bother  poets,  and  the  day  they  first 
began  to  breed  in  Whitbury  ! Such  an  evening  spoilt  ! Have 
a cup  of  coffee  ? Ho  ? then  a glass  of  sherry  ? ” 

Out  went  Tom.  Mrs.  Brown  had  been  up,  and  seen  him 
seemingly  sleeping  ; then  had  heard  him  run  downstairs  hur- 
riedly. He  passed  her  in  the  passage,  looking  very  wild. 

“ Seemed,  Sir,  just  like  my  nevy’s  wife’s  brother,  Will  Eord, 
before  he  made  away  with  hes’self.” 

Tom  goes  off  post  haste,  revolving  many  things  in  a crafty 


434 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


heart.  Then  he  steers  for  Bolus's  shop.  Bolus  is  at  “ The 
Angler's  Arms ; " hut  his  assistant  is  in. 

“ Did  a gentleman  call  here  just  now,  in  a long  cloak,  with  a 
felt  wide-awake  ? " 

“Yes."  And  the  assistant  looks  confused  enough  for  Tom 
to  rejoin, — 

“ And  you  sold  him  laudanum  1 " 

“ Why — ah — " 

“ And  you  had  sold  him  laudanum  already  this  afternoon,  you 
young  rascal ! How  dare  you,  twice  in  six  hours  ? I'll  hold 
you  responsible  for  the  man’s  life  ! " 

“You  dare  call  me  a rascal?"  blusters  the  youth,  terror- 
stricken  at  finding  how  much  Tom  knows. 

“ I am  a member  of  the  College  of  Surgeons,"  says  Tom, 
recovering  his  coolness,  “and  have  just  been  dining  with  Mr. 
Arms  worth.  I suppose  you  know  him  ? " 

The  assistant  shook  in  his  shoes  at  the  name  of  that  terrible 
justice  of  the  peace  and  of  the  war  also ; and  meekly  and  con- 
tritely he  replied, — 

“ Oh  Sir,  what  shall  I do  ? " 

“ You’re  in  a very  neat  scrape  ; you  could  not  have  feathered 
your  nest  better,"  says  Tom,  quietly  filling  his  pipe,  and  thinking. 
“ As  you  behave  now,  I will  get  you  out  of  it,  or  leave  you  to — • 
you  know  what,  as  well  as  I.  Get  your  hat." 

He  went  out,  and  the  youth  followed  trembling,  while  Tom 
formed  his  plans  in  his  mind. 

“ The  wild  beast  goes  home  to  his  lair  to  die,  and  so  may  he  ; 
for  I fear  it’s  life  and  death  now.  I’ll  try  the  house  where  he 
was  born.  Somewhere  in  Water  Lane  it  is,  I know." 

And  toward  Water  Lane  he  hurried.  It  was  a low-lying 
offshoot  of  the  town,  leading  along  the  water  meadows,  with  a 
straggling  row  of  houses  on  each  side,  the  perennial  haunts  of  fever 
and  ague.  Before  them,  on  each  side  the  road,  and  fringed  with 
pollard  willows  and  tall  poplars,  ran  a tiny  branch  of  the  Whit, 
to  feed  some  mill  below ; and  spread  out,  meanwhile,  into  ponds 
and  mires  full  of  offal  and  duckweed  and  rank  floating  grass.  A 
thick  mist  hung  knee-deep  over  them,  and  over  the  gardens  right 
and  left ; and  as  Tom  came  down  on  the  lane  from  the  main  street 
above,  he  could  see  the  mist  spreading  across  the  water-meadows 
and  reflecting  the  moon-beams  like  a lake  ; and  as  he  walked  into 
it,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  walking  down  a well.  And  he  hurried 
down  the  lane,  looking  out  anxiously  ahead  for  the  long  cloak. 

At  last  he  came  to  a better  sort  of  house.  That  might  be  it. 
He  would  take  the  chance.  There  was  a man  of  the  middle  class, 
arid  two  or  three  women,  standing  at  the  gate.  He  went  up — - 

“ Pray,  Sir,  did  a medical  man  named  Briggs  ever  live  here  ? 'r 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


435 


66  What  do  you  want  to  know  for  ? ” 

“ Why  ” — Tom  thought  matters  were  too  serious  for  delicacy — 
“ I am  looking  for  a gentleman,  and  thought  he  might  have  come 
here.” 

“ And  so  he  did,  if  you  mean  one  in  a queer  hat  and  a cloak.” 

“ How  long  since  ? ” 

“ Why,  he  came  up  our  garden  an  hour  or  more  ago ; walked 
right  into  the  parlour  without  with  your  leave,  or  by  your  leave, 
and  stared  at  us  all  round  like  one  out  of  his  mind ; and  so 
away,  as  soon  as  ever  I asked  him  what  he  was  at — ” 

“ Which  way  ? ” 

“ To  the  river,  I expect : I ran  out,  and  saw  him  go  down  the 
lane,  but  I was  not  going  far  by  night  alone  with  any  such 
strange  customers.” 

“ Lend  me  a lanthorn  then,  for  Heaven’s  sake  ! ” 

The  lanthorn  is  lent,  and  Tom  starts  again  down  the  lane. 

How  to  search.  At  the  end  of  the  lane  is  a cross  road 
parallel  to  the  river.  A broad  still  ditch  lies  beyond  it,  with  a 
little  bridge  across,  where  one  gets  minnows  for  bait;  then  a 
broad  water-meadow ; then  silver  Whit. 

The  bridge-gate  is  open.  Tom  hurries  across  the  road  to  it. 
The  lanthorn  shows  him  fresh  footmarks  going  into  the  meadow. 
Forward ! 

Up  and  down  in  that  meadow  for  an  hour  or  more  did  Tom 
and  the  trembling  youth  beat  like  a brace  of  pointer  dogs, 
stumbling  into  gripes,  and  over  sleeping  cows ; and  more  than 
once  stopping  short  just  in  time,  as  they  were  walking  into 
some  broad  and  deep  feeder. 

Almost  in  despair,  and  after  having  searched  down  the  river 
bank  for  full  two  hundred  yards,  Tom  was  on  the  point  of 
returning,  when  his  eye  rested  on  a part  of  the  stream  where  the 
mist  lay  higher  than  usual,  and  let  the  reflection  of  the  moon- 
light off  the  water  reach  his  eye ; and  in  the  moon-lit  ripples, 
close  to  the  farther  bank  of  the  river — what  was  that  black 
lump? 

Tom  knew  the  spot  well ; the  river  there  is  very  broad  and 
very  shallow,  flowing  round  low  islands  of  gravel  and  turf.  It 
was  very  low  just  now  too,  as  it  generally  is  in  October ; there 
could  not  be  four  inches  of  water  where  the  black  lump  lay,  but 
on  the  side  nearest  him  the  water  was  full  knee  deep. 

The  thing,  whatever  it  was,  was  forty  yards  from  him ; and  it 
was  a cold  night  for  wading.  It  might  be  a hassock  of  rushes  ; 
a tuft  of  the  great  water-dock  ; a dead  dog;  one  of  the  “ hangs” 
with  which  the  club-water  was  studded,  torn  up  and  stranded : 
but  yet,  to  Tom,  it  had  not  a canny  look. 

a As  usual ! Here  am  I getting  wet,  dirty,  and  miserable 
f f 2 


436 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


about  matters  which  are  not  the  slightest  concern  of  mine  ! I 
believe  I shall  end  by  getting  hanged  or  shot  in  somebody 
else’s  place,  with  this  confounded  spirit  of  meddling.  Yah  ! how 
cold  the  water  is  ! ” 

For  in  he  went,  the  grumbling  honest  dog  ; stepped  across  to 
the  black  lump ; and  lifted  it  up  hastily  enough, — for  it  was 
Elsley  Vavasour. 

Drowned  h 

No.  But  wet  through,  and  senseless  from  mingled  cold  and 
laudanum. 

Whether  he  had  meant  to  drown  himself,  and  lighting  on  the 
shallow,  had  stumbled  on  till  he  fell  exhausted  : or  whether  he 
had  merely  blundered  into  the  stream,  careless  whither  he  went, 
Tom  knew  not,  and  never  knew ; for  Elsley  himself  could  not 
recollect. 

Tom  took  him  in  his  arms,  carried  him  ashore  and  up  through 
the  water-meadow ; borrowed  a blanket  and  a wheelbarrow  at 
the  nearest  cottage ; wrapped  him  up  ; and  made  the  offending 
surgeon’s  assistant  wheel  him  to  his  lodgings. 

He  sat  with  him  there  an  hour ; and  then  entered  Mark’s 
house  again  with  his  usual  composed  face,  to  find  Mark  and 
Mary  sitting  up  in  great  anxiety. 

“ Mr.  Arms  worth,  does  the  telegraph  work  at  this  time  of 
night  ] ” 

“ I’ll  make  it,  if  it  is  wanted.  But  what’s  the  matter  ? ” 

“You  will  indeed h ” 

“ ?Gad,  I’ll  go  myself  and  kick  up  the  station-master.  What’s 
the  matter  ? ” 

“ That  if  poor  Mrs.  Vavasour  wishes  to  see  her  husband  alive, 
she  must  be  here  in  four-and-twenty  hours.  I’ll  tell  you  all 
presently — ” 

“ Mary,  my  coat  and  comforter  ! ” cries  Mark,  jumping  up. 

“ And,  Mary,  a pen  and  ink  to  write  the  message,”  says  Tom. 

“ Oh  ! cannot  I be  of  any  use  h ” says  Mary. 

“No,  you  angel.” 

“ You  must  not  call  me  an  angel,  Mr.  Thurnall.  After  all, 
what  can  I do  which  you  have  not  done  already  1 ” 

Tom  started.  Grace  had  once  used  to  him  the  very  same 
words.  By  the  bye,  what  was  it  in  the  two  women  which  made 
them  so  like  'l  Certainly,  neither  face  nor  fortune.  Something 
in  the  tones  of  their  voices. 

“ Ah  ! if  Grace  had  Mary’s  fortune,  or  Mary  Grace’s  face ! ” 
thought  Tom,  as  he  hurried  back  to  Elsley,  and  Mark  rushed 
down  to  the  station. 

Elsley  was  conscious  when  he  returned,  and  only  too  conscious. 
All  night  he  screamed  in  agonies  of  rheumatic  fever ; by  the 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  437 

next  afternoon  lie  was  failing  fast ; his  heart  was  affected ; and 
Tom  knew  that  he  might  die  any  hour. 

The  evening  train  brings  two  ladies,  Valencia  and  Lucia.  At 
the  risk  of  her  life,  the  poor  faithful  wife  has  come. 

A gentleman’s  carriage  is  waiting  for  them,  though  they  have 
ordered  none  ; and  as  they  go  through  the  station-room,  a plain 
little  well-dressed  body  comes  humbly  up  to  them — 

“Are  either  of  these  ladies  Mrs.  Vavasour?” 

“ Yes  ! I ! — I ! — is  he  alive  ? ” gasps  Lucia. 

“ Alive,  and  better  ! and  expecting  you — ” 

“Better? — expecting  me?”  almost  shrieks  she,  as  Valencia 
and  Mary  (for  it  is  she)  help  her  to  the  carriage.  Mary  puts 
them  in,  and  turns  away. 

“Are  you  not  coming  too  ? ” asks  Valencia,  who  is  puzzled. 

“No,  thank  you,  Madam ; I am  going  to  take  a walk.  John, 
you  know  where  to  drive  these  ladies.” 

Little  Mary  does  not  think  it  necessary  to  say  that  she,  with 
her  father’s  carriage,  has  been  down  to  two  other  afternoon 
trains,  upon  the  chance  of  finding  them. 

But  why  is  not  Trank  Headley  with  them,  when  he  is  needed 
most  ? And  why  are  Valencia’s  eyes  more  red  with  weeping 
than  even  her  sister’s  sorrow  need  have  made  them  ? 

Because  Trank  Headley  is  rolling  away  in  a Trench  railway, 
on  his  road  to  Marseilles,  and  to  what  Heaven  shall  find  for  him 
to  do. 

Yes,  he  is  gone  Eastward  Ho  among  the  many ; will  he  come 
W estward  Ho  again,  among  the  few  ? 

They  are  at  the  door  of  Elsley’s  lodgings  now.  Tom  Thurnall 
meets  them  there,  and  bows  them  upstairs  silently.  Lucia  is  so 
weak  that  she  has  to  cling  to  the  banister  a moment ; and  then, 
with  a strong  shudder,  the  spirit  conquers  the  flesh,  and  she 
hurries  up  before  them  both. 

It  is  a small  low  room — Valencia  had  expected  that  : but  she 
had  expected,  too,  confusion  and  wretchedness  : for  a note  from 
Major  Campbell,  ere  he  started,  had  told  her  of  the  condition 
in  which  Elsley  had  been  found.  Instead,  she  finds  neatness — 
oven  gaiety ; fresh  damask  linen,  comfortable  furniture,  a vase  of 
hothouse  flowers,  while  the  air  is  full  of  cool  perfumes.  No  one 
is  likely  to  tell  her  that  Mary  has  furnished  all  at  Toni’s  hint — 
“We  must  smarten  up  the  place,  for  the  poor  wife’s  sake.  It 
will  take  something  off  the  shock ; and  I want  to  avoid  shocks 
for  her.” 

So  Tom  had  worked  with  his  own  hands  that  morning  ; 
arranging  the  room  as  carefully  as  any  woman,  with  that  true 
doctor’s  forethought  and  consideration,  which  often  issues  in  the 
loftiest,  because  the  most  unconscious,  benevolence. 


438 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


He  paused  at  the  door— 

“Will  you  go  in'?”  whispered  he  to  Valencia,  in  a tone 
which  meant — “you  had  better  not.” 

6 ‘Hot  yet — I dare  say  he  is  too  weak.” 

Lucia  darted  in,  and  Torn  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and 
waited  at  the  stair-head.  “ Better,”  thought  he,  “ to  let  the  two 
poor  creatures  settle  their  own  concerns.  It  must  end  soon,  in 
any  case.” 

Lucia  rushed  to  the  bed-side,  drew  back  the  curtains — 

“ Tom  ! ” moaned  Elsley. 

“Hot  Tom  ! — Lucia  ! ” 

“Lucia  ? — Lucia  St.  Just ! ” answered  he,  in  a low  abstracted 
voice,  as  if  trying  to  recollect. 

“ Lucia  Vavasour  ! — your  Lucia  ! ” 

Elsley  slowly  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  and  looked  into 
her  face  with  a sad  inquiring  gaze. 

“ Elsley — darling  Elsley  ! — don’t  you  know  me  *?  ” 

“ Yes,  very  well  indeed ; better  than  you  know  me.  I am 
not  Vavasour  at  all.  My  name  is  Briggs — John  Briggs,  the 
apothecary’s  son,  come  home  to  Whitbury  to  die.” 

She  did  not  hear,  or  did  not  care  for  those  last  words. 

“ Elsley  ! I am  your  wife  ! — your  own  wife  ! — who  never  loved 
any  one  but  you — never,  never,  never  ! ” 

“Yes,  my  wife,  at  least! — Curse  them,  that  they  cannot 
deny  ! ” said  he,  in  the  same  abstracted  voice. 

“ Oh  God  ! is  he  mad  h ” thought  she.  “ Elsley,  speak  to  me  ! 
— I am  your  Lucia— your  love — ■” 

And  she  tore  off  her  bonnet,  and  threw  herself  beside  him  on 
the  bed,  and  clasped  him  in  her  arms,  murmuring, — “Your  wife  ! 
who  never  loved  any  one  but  you  ! ” 

Slowly  his  frozen  heart  and  frozen  brain  melted  beneath  the 
warmth  of  her  great  love  : but  he  did  not  speak  : only  he  passed 
his  weak  arm  round  her  neck  ; and  she  felt  that  his  cheek  was 
wet  with  tears,  while  she  murmured  on,  like  a cooing  dove,  the 
same  sweet  words  again — 

“Call  me  your  love  once  more,  and  I shall  know  that ‘all  is 
past.” 

“ Then  call  me  no  more  Elsley,  love  ! ” whispered  he.  “ Call 
me  John  Briggs,  and  let  us  have  done  with  shams  for 
ever.” 

“ Ho ; you  are  my  Elsley — my  Vavasour  ! and  I am  your  wife 
once  more  ! ” and  the  poor  thing  fondled  his  head  as  it  lay  upon 
the  pillow.  “ My  own  Elsley,  to  whom  I gave  myself,  body  and 
soul ; for  whom  I would  die  now, — oh,  such  a death ! — any 
death  ! ” 

“ How  could  I doubt  you  t — tool  that  I was  ! ” 


THE  BANR.ER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  439 

“No,  it  was  all  my  fault.  It  was  all  my  odious  temper ! 
But  we  will  be  bappy  now,  will  we  not  h ” 

Elsley  smiled  sadly,  and  began  babbling — Yes,  they  would 
take  a farm,  and  he  would  plough,  and  sow,  and  be  of  some  use 
before  he  died ; “But  promise  me  one  thing  !”  cried  he,  with 
sudden  strength. 

“ What  ? ” 

“That  you  will  go  home  and  burn  all  the  poetry — all  the 
manuscripts,  and  never  let  the  children  write  a verse — a verse 
— when  I am  dead  ? ” And  his  head  sank  back,  and  his  jaw 
dropped. 

“He  is  dead!”  cried  the  poor  impulsive  creature,  with  a 
shriek  which  brought  in  Tom  and  Valencia. 

“ He  is  not  dead,  Madam  : but  you  must  be  very  gentle  with 
him,  if  we  are  to — ■” 

Tom  saw  that  there  was  little  hope. 

“ I will  do  anything, — only  save  him  ! — save  him  ! Mr.  Thur- 
nall,  till  I have  atoned  for  all.” 

“ You  have  little  enough  to  atone  for,  Madam,”  said  Tom,  as 
he  busied  himself  about  the  sufferer.  He  saw  that  all  would 
soon  be  over,  and  would  have  had  Mrs.  Vavasour  withdraw  : but 
she  wras  so  really  good  a nurse  as  long  as  she  could  control  her- 
self, that  he  could  hardly  spare  her. 

So  they  sat  together  by  the  sick  bed-side,  as  the  short  hours 
passed  into  the  long,  and  the  long  hours  into  the  short  again, 
and  the  October  dawn  began  to  shine  through  the  shutterless 
window. 

A weary  eventless  night  it  was,  a night  as  of  many  years,  as 
worse  and  worse  grew  the  weak  frame ; and  Tom  looked  alter- 
nately at  the  heaving  chest,  and  shortening  breath,  and  rattling 
throat,  and  then  at  the  pale  still  face  of  the  lady. 

“ Better  she  should  sit  by  (thought  he),  and  watch  him  till  she 
is  tired  out.  It  will  come  on  her  the  more  gently,  after  all.  He 
will  die  at  sunrise,  as  so  many  die.” 

At  last  he  began  gently  feeling  for  Elsley’s  pulse.  Her  eye 
caught  his  movement,  and  she  half  sprang  up  ; but  at  a gesture 
from  him  she  sank  quietly  on  her  knees,  holding  her  husband’s 
hand  in  her  own. 

Elsley  turned  toward  her  once,  ere  the  film  of  death  had 
fallen,  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  with  his  beautiful  eyes 
full  of  love.  Then  the  eyes  paled  and  faded:  but  still  they 
sought  for  her  painfully  long  after  she  had  buried  her  head  in 
the  coverlet,  unable  to  bear  the  sight. 

And  so  vanished  away  Elsley  Vavasour,  poet  and  genius,  intc 
his  own  place. 

“ Let  us  pray,”  said  a deep  voice  from  behind  the  curtain : 


410 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


it  was  Mark  Armsworth’s.  He  liad  come  over  with  the  first 
dawn,  to  bring  the  ladies  food  ; had  slipped  upstairs  to  ask 
what  news,  found  the  door  open,  and  entered  in  time  to  see 
the  last  gasp. 

Lucia  kept  her  head  still  buried  : and  Tom,  for  the  first  time 
for  many  a year,  knelt,  as  the  old  banker  commended  to  God  the 
soul  of  our  dear  brother  just  departing  this  life.  Then  Mark 
glided  quietly  down-stairs,  and  Valencia,  rising,  tried  to  lead 
Mrs.  Vavasour  away. 

But  then  broke  out  in  all  its  wild  passion  the  Irish  tempera- 
ment. Let  us  pass  it  over ; why  try  to  earn  a little  credit  by 
depicting  the  agony  and  the  weakness  of  a sister  1 

At  last  Thurnall  got  her  down-stairs.  Mark  was  there  still, 
having  sent  off  for  his  carriage.  He  quietly  put  her  arm  through 
his,  led  her  off,  worn  out  and  unresisting,  drove  her  home,  de- 
livered her  and  Valencia  into  Mary’s  keeping,  and  then  asked 
Tom  to  stay  and  sit  with  him. 

“ I hope  I’ve  no  very  bad  conscience,  boy  j but  Mary’s  busy 
with  the  poor  young  thing,  mere  child  she  is,  too,  to  go  through 
such  a night  ; and,  somehow,  I don’t  like  to  be  left  alone,  after 
such  a sight  as  that ! ” 

****** 


“ Tom  ! ” said  Mark,  as  they  sat  smoking  in  silence,  after 
breakfast,  in  the  study.  “Tom  !” 

“ Yes,  Sir  ! ” 

“ That  was  an  awful  death-bed,  Tom  ! ” 

Tom  was  silent. 

u I don’t  mean  that  he  died  hard,  as  we  say ; but  so  young, 
Tom.  And  I suppose  poets’  souls  are  worth  something,  like 
other  people’s — perhaps  more.  I can’t  understand  ’em  : but  my 
Mary  seems  to,  and  people,  like  her,  who  think  a poet  the  finest 
thing  in  the  world.  I laugh  at  it  all  when  I am  jolly,  and  call 
it  sentiment  and  cant : but  I believe  that  they  are  nearer  heaven 
than  I am  : though  I think  they  don’t  quite  know  where  heaven 
is,  nor  where  ” (with  a wicked  wink,  in  spite  of  the  sadness  of 
his  tone) — “ where  they  themselves  are  either.” 

“ I’ll  tell  you,  Sir.  I have  seen  men  enough  die — we  doctors 
are  hardened  to  it : but  I have  seen  unprofessional  deaths — men 
we  didn’t  kill  ourselves ; I have  seen  men  drowned,  shot,  hanged, 
run  over,  and  worse  deaths  than  that,  Sir,  too ; — and,  somehow, 
I never  felt  any  death  like  that  man’s.  Granted,  he  began  by 
trying  to  set  the  world  right,  when  he  hadn’t  yet  set  himself 
right ; but  wasn’t  it  some  credit  to  see  that  the  world  was 


wrong  ] ” 

“ I don’t  know  that. 
“To  vou  and  me ; but 


The  world’s  a very  good  world.” 
there  are  men  who  have  higher  notions 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


441 


than  I of  what  this  world  ought  to  he ; and,  for  aught  I know, 
they  are  right.  That  Aberalva  Curate,  Headley,  had ; and  so 
had  Briggs,  in  his  own  way.  I thought  him  once  only  a poor 
discontented  devil,  who  quarrelled  with  his  bread  and  butter 
because  he  hadn’t  teeth  to  eat  it  with  : but  there  was  more  in 
the  fellow,  coxcomb  as  he  was.  ’Tisn’t  often  that  I let  that 
croaking  old  bogy,  Madam  might  have  been,  trouble  me  ; but  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  if,  fifteen  years  ago,  I had  listened  to 
his  vapourings  more,  and  bullied  him  about  them  less,  lie  mighf 
have  been  here  still.” 

“ You  wouldn’t  have  been  then.  Well  for  you  that  you  didn’t 
catch  his  fever.” 

“ And  write  verses  too  h Don’t  make  me  laugh,  Sir,  on  such 
a day  as  this ; I always  comfort  myself  with — ‘ it’s  no  business 
of  mine  :’  but,  somehow,  I can’t  do  so  just  now.”  And  Tom  sat 
silent,  more  softened  than  he  had  been  for  years. 

“ Let’s  talk  of  something  else,”  said  Mark  at  last.  “ You  had 
the  cholera  very  bad  down  there,  I hear  ? ” 

“ Oh,  sharp,  but  short,”  said  Tom,  who  disliked  any  subject 
which  brought  Grace  to  his  mind. 

“ Any  on  my  lord’s  estate  with  the  queer  name  V ’ 

“ Hot  a case.  We  stopped  the  devil  out  there,  thanks  to  his 
lordship.” 

“ So  did  we  here.  We  were  very  near  in  for  it,  though,  I 
fancy. — At  least,  I chose  to  fancy  so — thought  it  a good  oppor- 
tunity to  clean  Whitbury  once  for  all.” 

“ It’s  just  like  you.  Well  1” 

“Well,  I offered  the  Town-council  to  drain  the  whole  town  at 
my  own  expense,  if  they’d  let  me  have  the  sewage.  And  that 
only  made  things  worse ; for  as  soon  as  the  beggars  found  out 
the  sewage  was  worth  anything,  they  were  down  on  me,  as  if  I 
wanted  to  do  them — I,  Mark  Armsworth  ! — and  would  sooner 
let  half  the  town  rot  with  an  epidemic,  than  have  reason  to  fancy 
I’d  made  any  money  out  of  them.  So  a pretty  tight  I had,  for 
half-a-dozen  meetings,  till  I called  in  my  lord ; and,  Sir,  he  came 
down  by  the  next  express,  like  a trump,  all  the  way  from  town, 
and  gave  them  such  a piece  of  his  mind — was  going  to  have  the 
Board  of  Health  down,  and  turn  on  the  Government  tap,  com- 
missioners and  all,  and  cost  ’em  hundreds  : till  the  fellows  shook 
in  their  shoes ; — and  so  I conquered,  and  here  we  are.  as  clean  as 
a nut, — and  a tig  for  the  cholera  ! — except  down  in  Water-lane, 
which  I don’t  know  what  to  do  with  ; for  if  tradesmen  will  run 
up  houses  on  spec  in  a water-meadow,  who  can  stop  them  h 
There  ought  to  be  a law  for  it,  say  I ; but  I say  a good  many 
things  in  the  twelve  months  that  nobody  minds.  But,  my  dear 
Jy>y,  if  one  man  in  a town  has  pluck  and  money,  he  may  do  it. 


442 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


It’ll  cost  him  a few  : I’ve  had  to  pay  the  main  part  myself,  after 
all : hut  I suppose  God  will  make  it  up  to  a man  somehow.  That’s 
old  Mark’s  faith,  at  least.  How  I want  to  talk  to  you  about  your- 
self. My  lord  comes  into  town  to-day,  and  you  must  see  him.” 
“Why,  then'?  He  can’t  help  me  with  the  Bashi-bazouks, 
can  he  ? ” 

“ Bashi-fiddles  ! I say,  Tom,  the  more  I think  over  it,  the 
more  it  won’t  do.  It’s  throwing  yourself  away.  They  say  that 
Turkish  contingent  is  getting  on  terribly  ill.” 

“ More  need  of  me  to  make  them  well.” 

“Hang  it — I mean — hasn’t  justice  done  it,  and  so  on.  The 
papers  are  full  of  it.” 

“Well,”  quoth  Tom,  “and  why  should  it?” 

“ Why,  man  alive,  if  England  spends  all  this  money  on  the 
men,  she  ought  to  do  her  duty  by  them.” 

“I  don’t  see  that.  As  Pecksniff  says,  ‘If  England  expects 
every  man  to  do  his  duty,  she’s  very  sanguine,  and  will  be  much 
disappointed.’  They  don’t  intend  to  do  their  duty  by  her,  any 
more  than  I do;  so  why  should  she  do  her  duty  by  them  ?” 

“ Don’t  intend  to  do  your  duty?” 

“ I’m  going  out  because  England’s  money  is  necessary  to  me  ; 
and  England  hires  me  because  my  skill  is  necessary  to  her.  I 
didn’t  think  of  duty  when  I settled  to  go,  and  why  should  she  ? 
I’ll  get  all  out  of  her  I can  in  the  way  of  pay  and  practice,  and 
she  may  get  all  she  can  out  of  me  in  the  way  of  work.  As  for 
being  ill-used,  I never  expect  to  be  anything  else  in  this  life.  I’m 
sure  I don’t  care ; and  I’m  sure  she  don’t ; so  live  and  let  live ; 
talk  plain  truth,  and  leave  Bunkum  for  right  honourables  who 
keep  their  places  thereby.  Give  me  another  weed.” 

“ Queer  old  philosopher  you  are ; but  go  you  shan’t ! ” 

“ Go  I will,  Sir ; don’t  stop  me.  I’ve  my  reasons,  and  they’re 
good  ones  enough.” 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  servant ; — Lord 
Minch  ampstead  was  waiting  at  Mr.  Arms  worth’s  office. 

“ Early  bird,  his  lordship,  and  gets  the  worm  accordingly,” 
says  Mark,  as  he  hurries  off  to  attend  on  his  ideal  hero.  “You 
come  over  to  the  shop  in  half-an-hour,  mind.” 

“ But  why  ?” 

“ Confound  you,  Sir  ! you  talk  of  having  your  reasons  : I have 
mine  ! ” 

Mark  looked  quite  cross ; so  Tom  gave  way,  and  went  in  due 
time  to  the  bank. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire  in  Mark’s  inner  room,  he 
saw  the  old  cotton  prince. 

“And  a prince  he  looks  like,”  quoth  Tom  to  himself,  as  he 
waited  in  the  bank  outside,  and  looked  through  the  glass  screen. 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  443 

“ How  well  the  old  man  wears  ! I wonder  how  many  fresh  thou- 
sands he  has  made  since  I saw  him  last,  seven  years  ago.” 

And  a very  nohle  person  Lord  Minchampstead  did  look  ; one 
to  whom  hats  went  off  almost  without  their  owners’  will ; tall 
and  portly,  with  a soldier-like  air  of  dignity  and  command,  which 
was  relieved  by  the  good-nature  of  the  countenance.  Yet  it  was 
a good-nature  which  would  stand  no  trifling.  The  jaw  was  deep 
and  broad,  though  finely  shaped  ; the  mouth  firm  set ; the  nose 
slightly  aquiline ; the  brow  of  great  depth  and  height,  though 
narrow  ; — altogether  a Julius  Caesar’s  type  of  head  ; that  of  a 
man  born  to  rule  self,  and  therefore  to  rule  all  he  met. 

.Tom  looked  over  his  dress,  not  forgetting,  like  a true  English- 
man, to  mark  what  sort  of  boots  he  wore.  They  were  boots  not 
quite  fashionable,  but  carefully  cleaned  on  trees ; trousers  strapped 
tightly  over  them,  which  had  adopted  the  military  stripe,  but 
retained  the  slit  at  the  ancle  which  was  in  vogue  forty  years  ago  ; 
frock  coat  with  a velvet  collar,  buttoned  up,  but  not  too  far ; 
high  and  tight  blu,e  cravat  below  an  immense  shirt  collar;  a 
certain  care  and  richness  of  dress  throughout,  but  soberly  behind 
the  fashion  : while  the  hat  was  a very  shabby  and  broken  one, 
and  the  whip  still  more  shabby  and  broken  ; all  which  indicated 
to  Tom  that  his  lordship  let  his  tailor  and  his  valet  dress  him  ; 
and  though  not  unaware  that  it  behoved  him  to  set  out  his 
person  as  it  deserved,  was  far  too  fine  a gentleman  to  trouble 
himself  about  looking  fine. 

Mark  looks  round,  sees  Tom,  and  calls  him  in. 

“ Mr.  Thurnall,  I am  glad  to  meet  you,  Sir.  You  did  me 
good  service  at  Pentremochyn,  and  did  it  cheaply.  I was  agree- 
ably surprised,  I confess,  at  receiving  a bill  for  four  pounds  seven 
shillings  and  sixpence,  where  I expected  one  of  twenty  or 
thirty.” 

“ I charged  according  to  what  my  time  was  really  worth  there, 
my  lord.  I heartily  wish  it  had  been  worth  more.” 

“Ho  doubt,”  says  my  lord,  in  the  blandest,  but  the  driest 
tone. 

Some  men  would  have,  under  a sense  of  Tom’s  merits,  sent 
him  a cheque  off-hand  for  five-and-twenty  pounds  : but  that  is 
not  Lord  Minchampstead’s  way  of  doing  business.  He  had 
paid  simply  the  sum  asked : but  he  had  set  Tom  down  in  his 
memory  as  a man  whom  he  could  trust  to  do  good  work,  and  to 
do  it  cheaply ; and  now — 

“ You  are  going  to  join  the  Turkish  contingent'?” 

“ I am.” 

“You  know  that  part  of  the  world  well,  I believe  *?  ” 

“ Intimately.” 

“ And  the  languages  spoken  there  ?” 


444 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


“ By  no  means  all.  Russian  and  Tartar  well ; Turkish  toler- 
ably ; with  a smattering  of  two  or  three  Circassian  dialects.” 

“ Humph  ! A fair  list.  Any  Persian  V* 

“ Only  a few  words.” 

“ Humph  ! If  you  can  learn  one  language  I presume  you  can 
learn  another.  How,  Mr.  Thurnall,  I have  no  doubt  that  you 
will  do  your  duty  in  the  Turkish  contingent.” 

Tom  bowed. 

“ But  I must  ask  you  if  your  resolution  to  join  it  is  fixed  ? ” 

“ I only  join  it  because  I can  get  no  other  employment  at  the 
seat  of  war.” 

“ Humph  ! You  wish  to  go  then,  in  any  case,  to  the  seat,  of 
war  ? ” 

“ Certainly.”  ■ 

“ Ho  doubt  you  have  sufficient  reasons Armswortli, 

this  puts  the  question  in  a new  light.” 

Tom  looked  round  at  Mark,  and,  behold,  his  face  bore  a ludi- 
crous mixture  of  anger  and  disappointment,  and  perplexity.  He 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  make  signals  to  Tom,  and  to  be  afraid  of 
doing  so  openly  before  the  great  man. 

“ He  is  as  wilful  and  as  foolish  as  a girl,  my  lord ; and  I’ve 
told  him  so.” 

“ Everybody  knows  his  own  business  best,  Armswortli ; Mr. 
Thurnall,  have  you  any  fancy  for  the  post  of  Queen’s  messenger  ? ” 
“I  should  esteem  myself  only  too  happy  as  one.” 

“ They  are  not  to  be  obtained  now  as  easily  as  they  were  fifty 
years  ago  ; and  are  given,  as  you  may  know,  to  a far  higher  class 
of  men  than  they  were  formerly.  But  I shall  do  my  best  to 
obtain  you  one,  when  an  opportunity  offers.” 

Tom  was  beginning  his  profusest  thanks  : for  was  not  his 
fortune  made  % but  Lord  Minchampstead  stopped  him  with  an 
uplifted  finger. 

“ And,  meanwhile,  there  are  foreign  employments  of  which 
neither  those  who  bestow  them,  nor  those  who  accept  them,  are 
expected  to  talk  much : but  for  which  you,  if  I am  rightly 
informed,  would  be  especially  fitted.” 

Tom  bowed  ; and  his  face  spoke  a hundred  assents. 

“Very  well;  if  you  will  come  over  to  Minchampstead  to- 
morrow, I will  give  you  letters  to  friends  of  mine  in  Town.  I 
trust  that  they  may  give  you  a better  opportunity  than  the 
Bashi-bazouks  will,  of  displaying  that  courage,  address,  and  self- 
command,  which,  I understand,  you  possess  in  so  uncommon  a 
degree.  Good  morning  ! ” And  forth  the  great  man  went. 

Most  opposite  were  the  actions  of  the  two  whom  he  had  left 
behind  him. 

Tom  dances  about  the  room,  hurrahing  in  a whisper — 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  445 

“ My  fortune’s  made  ! The  secret  service  ! Oh,  what  bliss  ) 
The  thing  I’ve  always  longed  for  !” 

Mark  dashes  himself  desperately  back  in  his  chair,  and  shoots 
his  angry  legs  straight  out,  almost  tripping  up  Tom. 

“ You  abominable  ass  ! You  have  done  it  with  a vengeance  ! 
Why,  he  has  been  pumping  me  about  you  this  month  ! One 
word  from  you  to  say  you’d  have  stayed,  and  he  was  going  to 
make  you  agent  for  all  his  Cornish  property.” 

“ Don’t  he  wish  he  may  get  it  ? Catch  a fish  climbing  trees  ! 
Catch  me  staying  at  home  when  I can  serve  my  Queen  and  my 
country,  and  find  a sphere  for  the  full  development  of  my 
talents  ! Oh,  won’t  I be  as  wise  as  a serpent?  Won’t  I be 
complimented  by  * * * himself  as  his  best  lurcher,  worth  any 
ten  needy  Poles,  greedy  Armenians,  traitors,  renegades,  rag-tag 
and  bob-tail ! I’ll  shave  my  head  to-morrow,  and  buy  me  an 
assortment  of  wigs  of  every  hue  ! ” 

Take  care,  Tom  Thurnall.  After  pride  comes  a fall;  and  he 
who  digs  a pit  may  fall  into  it  himself.  Has  this  morning’s 
death-bed  given  you  no  lesson  that  it  is  as  well  not  to  cast 
ourselves  down  from  where  God  has  put  us,  for  whatsoever 
seemingly  fine  ends  of  ours,  lest,  doing  so,  we  tempt  God  once 
too  often  ? 

Your  father  quoted  that  text  to  John  Briggs,  here,  many  years 
ago.  Might  he  not  quote  it  now  to  you?  True,  not  one  word 
of  murmuring,  not  even  of  regret,  or  fear,  has  passed  his  good 
old  lips  about  your  self-willed  plan.  He  has  such  utter  confi- 
dence in  you,  such  utter  carelessness  about  himself,  such  utter 
faith  in  God,  that  he  can  let  you  go  without  a sigh.  But  will 
you  make  his  courage  an  excuse  for  your  own  rashness  ? Again, 

beware  ; after  pride  may  come  a fall. 

* * * * * * 

On  the  fourth  day  Elsley  was  buried.  Mark  and  Tom  were 
the  only  mourners  ; Lucia  and  Valencia  stayed  at  Mark’s  house, 
to  return  next  day  under  Tom’s  care  to  Eaton  Square. 

The  two  mourners  walked  back  sadly  from  the  church-yard. 
“ I shall  put  a stone  over  him,  Torn.  He  ought  to  rest  quietly 

now ; for  he  had  little  rest  enough  in  this  life 

“How,  I want  to  talk  to  you  about  something;  when  I’ve 
taken  off  my  hatband,  that  is  ; for  it  would  be  hardly  lucky  to 
mention  such  matters  with  a hatband  on.” 

Tom  looked  up,  wondering. 

“ Tell  me  about  his  wife,  meanwhile.  What  made  him  marry 
her  ? Was  she  a pretty  woman  ? ” 

“ Pretty  enough,  I believe,  before  she  married  : but  I hardly 
think  he  married  her  for  her  face.” 

“ Of  course  not ! ” said  the  old  man  with  emphasis  ; “of 


446 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


course  not ! Whatever  faults  he  had,  he’d  he  too  sensible  for 
that.  Don’t  you  marry  for  a face,  Tom  ! I didn’t.” 

Tom  opened  his  eyes  at  this  last  assertion ; but  humbly 
expressed  his  intention  of  not  falling  into  that  snare. 

“ Ah  ? you  don’t  believe  me  : well,  she  was  a beautiful 
woman. — I’d  like  to  see  her  fellow  now  in  the  county  ! — and 
I won’t  deny  I was  proud  of  her.  But  she  had  ten  thousand 
pounds,  Tom.  And  as  for  her  looks,  why,  if  you’ll  believe  me, 
after  we’d  been  married  three  months,  I didn’t  know  whether 
she  had  any  looks  or  not.  What  are  you  smiling  at,  you  young 
rogue  ? ” 

“ Report  did  say  that  one  look  of  Mrs.  Arms  worth’s,  to  the 
last,  would  do  more  to  manage  Mr.  Armsworth  than  the 
opinions  of  the  whole  bench  of  bishops.” 

“ Report’s  a liar,  and  you’re  a puppy  ! You  don’t  know  yet 
whether  it  was  a pleasant  look,  or  a cross  one,  lad.  But  still — 
well,  she  was  an  angel,  and  kept  old  Mark  straiter  than  he’s 
ever  been  since  : not  that  he’s  so  very  bad,  now.  Though  I 
sometimes  think  Mary’s  better  even  than  her  mother.  That 
girl’s  a good  girl,  Tom.” 

“ Report  agrees  with  you  in  that,  at  least.” 

“ Fool  if  it  didn’t.  And  as  for  looks — I can  speak  to  you  as 
to  my  own  son — Why,  handsome  is  that  handsome  does.” 

“ And  that  handsome  has ; for  you  must  honestly  put  that 
into  the  account.” 

i(  You  think  so  ? So  do  I ! Well,  then,  Tom,” — and  here 
Mark  was  seized  with  a tendency  to  St.  Yitus’s  dance,  and  began 
overhauling  every  button  on  his  coat,  twitching  up  his  black 
gloves,  till  (as  undertakers’  gloves  are  generally  meant  to  do) 
they  burst  in  half-a-dozen  places ; taking  off  his  hat,  wiping  his 
head  fiercely,  and  putting  the  hat  on  again  behind  before ; till 
at  last  he  snatched  his  arm  from  Tom’s,  and  gripping  him  by 
the  shoulder,  recommenced — 

“ You  think  so,  eh  ? Well,  I must  say  it,  so  I’d  better  have 
it  out  now,  hatband  or  none  ! What  do  you  think  of  the  man 
who  married  my  daughter,  face  and  all  h ” 

“ I should  think,”  quoth  Tom,  wondering  who  the  happy 
man  could  be,  “ that  he  would  be  so  lucky  in  possessing  such 
a heart,  that  he  would  be  a fool  to  care  about  the  face.” 

“Then  be  as  good  as  your  word,  and  take  her  yourself.  I’ve 
watched  you  this  last  week,  and  you’ll  make  her  a good  husband. 
There,  I have  spoken;  let  me  hear  no  more  about  it.” 

And  Mark  half  pushed  Tom  from  him,  and  puffed  on  by  his 
side,  highly  excited. 

If  Mark  had  knocked  the  young  Doctor  down,  he  would  have 
been  far  less  astonished,  and  far  less  puzzled  too.  “ Well,” 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


447 


thought  he,  “ I fancied  nothing  could  throw  my  steady  old 
engine  off  the  rails  ; but  I am  off  them  now,  with  a vengeance.” 
What  to  say  he  knew  not ; at  last — 

“ It  is  just  like  your  generosity,  Sir ; you  have  been  a brother 
to  my  father  ; and  now — ” 

“ And  now  Til  be  a father  to  you  ! Old  Mark  does  nothing 
by  halves.” 

“But,  Sir,  however  lucky  I should  be  in  possessing  Miss 
Arms  worth’s  heart,  what  reason  have  I to  suppose  that  I do  so  1 
I never  spoke  a word  to  her.  I needn’t  say  that  she  never  did 
to  me — which — ■” 

“ Of  course  she  didn’t,  and  of  course  you  didn’t.  Should  like 
to  have  seen  you  making  love  to  my  daughter,  indeed ! jSTo, 
Sir  ; it’s  my  will  and  pleasure.  I’ve  settled  it,  and  done  it  shall 
be ! I shall  go  home  and  tell  Mary,  and  she’ll  obey  me — I 
should  like  to  see  her  do  anything  else ! Hoity,  toity,  fathers 
must  be  masters,  Sir  ! even  in  these  fly-away  new  times,  when 
young  ones  choose  their  own  husbands,  and  their  own  politics, 
and  their  own  hounds,  and  their  own  religion  too,  and  be 
hanged  to  them  ! ” 

What  did  this  unaccustomed  bit  of  bluster  mean  h for  unac- 
customed it  was  ; and  Tom  knew  well  that  Mary  Armsworth  had 
her  own  way,  and  managed  her  father  as  completely  as  he  managed 
Whitbury. 

“ Humph ! It  is  impossible ; and  yet  it  must  be.  This 
explains  his  being  so  anxious  that  Lord  Minchampstead  should 
approve  of  me.  I have  found  favour  in  the  poor  dear  thing’s 
eyes,  I suppose  : and  the  good  old  fellow  knows  it,  and  won’t 
betray  her,  and  so  shams  tyrant.  Just  like  him  ! ” But — that 
Mary  Armsworth  should  care  for  him  ! Yain  fellow  that  he 
was  to  fancy  it ! And  yet,  when  he  began  to  put  things 
together,  little  silences,  little  looks,  little  nothings,  which  all 
i vj  ether  might  make  something.  He  would  not  slander  her 
to  himself  by  supposing  that  her  attentions  to  his  father 
were  paid  for  his  sake : but  he  could  not  forget  that  it  was 
she,  always,  who  read  his  letters  aloud  to  the  old  man : or 
that  she  had  taken  home  and  copied  out  the  story  of  his  ship- 
wreck. Beside,  it  was  the  only  method  of  explaining  Mark’s 
conduct,  save  on  the  supposition  that  he  had  suddenly  been 
“ changed  by  the  fairies  ” in  his  old  age,  instead  of  in  the  cradle, 
as  usual. 

It  was  a terrible  temptation;  and  to  no  man  more  than  to 
Thomas  Thurnall.  He  was  no  boy,  to  hanker  after  mere  animal 
beauty;  he  had  no  delicate  visions  or  lofty  aspirations  ; and  he 
knew  (no  man  better)  the  plain  English  of  fifty  thousand  pounds, 
and  Mark  Armsworth ’s  daughter — a good  house,  a good  con 


448 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


suiting  practice  (for  lie  would  take  his  M.D.  of  course),  a good 
station  in  the  county,  a good  clarence  with  a good  pair  of  horses, 
good  plate,  a good  dinner  with  good  company  thereat ; and, 
over  and  above  all,  his  father  to  live  with  him ; and  with  Mary, 
whom  he  loved  as  a daughter,  in  luxury  and  peace  to  his  life’s 
end. — Why,  it  was  all  that  he  had  ever  dreamed  of,  three  times 
more  than  he  ever  hoped  to  gain  ! — Not  to  mention  (for  how 
oddly  little  dreams  of  selfish  pleasure  slip  in  at  such  moments  !) 
— that  he  would  buy  such  a Ross’s  microscope  ! and  keep  such 
a horse  for  a sly  by-day  with  the  Whitford  Priors  ! Oh,  to  see 
once  again  a fox  break  from  Coldharbour  gorse  ! 

And  then  rose  up  before  his  imagination  those  drooping  stead- 
fast eyes  ; and  Grace  Harvey,  the  suspected,  the  despised,  seemed 
to  look  through  and  through  his  inmost  soul,  as  through  a home 
which  belonged  of  right  to  her,  and  where  no  other  woman  must 
dwell,  or  could  dwell ; for  she  was  there  ; and  he  knew  it  ; and 
knew  that,  even  if  he  never  married  till  his  dying  day,  he  should 
sell  his  soul  by  marrying  any  one  but  her.  “ And  why  should 
I not  sell  my  soul  ? ” asked  he,  almost  fiercely.  “ I sell  my 
talents,  my  time,  my  strength  ; I’d  sell  my  life  to-morrow,  and 
go  to  be  shot  for  a shilling  a day,  if  it  would  make  the  old  man 
comfortable  for  life  ; and  why  not  my  soul  too  ? Don’t  that 
belong  to  me  as  much  as  any  other  part  of  me  ? Why  am  I to 
be  condemned  to  sacrifice  my  prospects  in  life  to  a girl  of  whose 
honesty  I am  not  even  sure  ? What  is  this  intolerable  fasci- 
nation ? Witch  ! I almost  believe  in  mesmerism  now  ! — Again, 
I say,  why  should  I not  sell  my  soul,  as  I’d  sell  my  coat,  if  the 
bargain’s  but  a good  one  ? ” 

And  if  he  did,  who  would  ever  know  ? — Not  even  Grace  her- 
self. The  secret  was  his,  and  no  one,else’s.  Or  if  they  did 
know,  what  matter?  Dozens  of  men  sell  their  souls  every  year, 
and  thrive  thereon : tradesmen,  lawyers,  squires,  popular  preachers, 
great  noblemen,  kings  and  princes.  He  would  be  in  good  com- 
pany, at  all  events : and  while  so  many  live  in  glass  houses, 
who  dare  throw  stones  ? 

But  then,  curiously  enough,  there  came  over  him  a vague 
dread  of  possible  evil,  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before.  He  had 
been  trying  for  years  to  raise  himself  above  the  power  of  fortune ; 
and  he  had  succeeded  ill  enough : but  he  had  never  lost  heart. 
Robbed,  shipwrecked,*  lost  in  deserts,  cheated  at  cards,  shot  in 
revolutions,  begging  his  bread,  he  had  always  been  the  same 
unconquerable  light-hearted  Tom,  whose  motto  was,  “Pall  light, 
and  don’t  whimper  : better  luck  next  round.”  But  now,  what 
if  he  played  his  last  court-card,  and  Portune,  out  of  her  close- 
hidden  hand,  laid  down  a trump  thereon  with  quiet  sneering 
smile?  And  she  would  S He  knew,  somehow,  that  he  should 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


44' 9 


not  thrive.  His  children  would  die  of  the  measles,  his  horses 
break  their  knees,  his  plate  be  stolen,  his  house  catch  fire,  and 
Mark  Armsworth  die  insolvent.  What  a fool  he  was,  to  fancy 
such  nonsense  ! Here  he  had  been  slaving  all  his  life  to  keep 
his  father : and  now  he  could  keep  him ; why,  he  would  be 
justified,  right,  a good  son,  in  doing  the  thing.  How  hard,  how 
unjust  of  those  upper  Powers  in  which  he  believed  so  vaguely,, 
to  forbid  his  doing  it ! 

And  how  did  he  know  that  they  forbid  him  ? That  is  too 
deep  a question  to  be  analyzed  here : but  this  thing  is  note- 
worthy, that  there  came  next  over  Tom’s  mind  a stranger  feeling 
still — a fancy  that  if  he  did  this  thing,  and  sold  his  soul,  he 
could  not  answer  for  himself  thenceforth  on  the  score  of  merest 
respectability ; could  not  answer  for  himself  not  to  drink,  gamble,, 
squander  his  money,  neglect  his  father,  prove  unfaithful  to  his 
wife ; that  the  innate  capacity  for  blackguardism,  which  was  as 
strong  in  him  as  in  any  man,  might,  and  probably  would,  run 
utterly  riot  thenceforth.  He  felt  as  if  he  should  cast  away  his 
last  anchor,  and  drift  helplessly  down  into  utter  shame  and  ruin. 
It  may  have  been  very  fanciful  : but  so  he  felt ; and  felt  it  so 
strongly  too,  that  in  less  time  than  I have  taken  to  write  this  ho 
had  turned  to  Mark  Armsworth  : — 

“ Sir,  you  are  what  I have  always  found  you.  Do  you  wish 
me  to  be  what  you  have  always  found  me?” 

“ I’d  be  sorry  to  see  you  anything  else,  boy.” 

“ Then,  Sir,  I can’t  do  this.  In  honour,  I can’t.” 

“ Are  you  married  already  ? ” thundered  Mark. 

“Not  quite  as  bad  as  that and  in  spite  of  his  agitation  Tom 
laughed,  but  hysterically,  at  the  notion.  “ But  fool  I am  ; for 
I am  in  love  with  another  woman.  I am,  Sir,”  went  he  on 
hurriedly.  “ Boy  that  I am  ! and  she  don’t  even  know  it : but 
if  you  be  the  man  I take  you  for,  you  may  be  angry  with  me, 
but  you’ll  understand  me.  Anything  but  be  a rogue  to  you 
and  to  Mary,  and  to  my  own  self  too.  Pool  I’ll  be,  but  rogue 
I won’t ! ” 

Mark  strode  on  in  silence,  frightfully  red  in  the  face  for  full 
five  minutes.  Then  he  turned  sharply  on  Tom,  and  catching  him 
by  the  shoulder,  thrust  him  from  him. 

“ There, — go  ! and  don’t  let  me  see  or  hear  of  you ; — that  is, 
till  I tell  you  ! Go  along,  I say  ! Hum-hum  ! ” (in  a tone  half 
of  wrath,  and  half  of  triumph),  “his  father’s  child!  If  you 
will  ruin  yourself,  I can’t  help  it.” 

“Nor  I,  Sir,”  said  Tom,  in  a really  piteous  tone,  bemoaning 
the  day  he  ever  saw  Aberalva,  as  he  watched  Mark  stride  into 
his  own  gate.  “ If  I had  but  had  common  luck  ! If  I had  but 
brought  my  £1,500  safe  home  here,  and  never  seen  Grace,  and. 


450 


THE  BANKER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


married  this  girl  out  of  hand  ! Common  luck  is  all  I ask,  and 
I never  get  it ! ” 

And  Tom  went  home  sulkier  than  a bear  : but  he  did  not  let 
his  father  find  out  his  trouble.  It  was  his  last  evening  with  the 
old  man.  To-morrow  he  must  go  to  London,  and  then — to 
scramble  and  twist  about  the  world  again  till  he  died  ? “ Well, 

why  not  ? A man  must  die  somehow  : but  it's  hard  on  the  poor 
old  father,”  said  Tom. 

As  Tom  was  packing  his  scanty  carpet-bag  next  morning, 
there  was  a knock  at  the  door.  He  looked  out,  and  saw  Arras- 
worth’s  clerk.  What  could  that  mean?  Had  the  old  man 
determined  to  avenge  the  slight,  and  to  do  so  on  his  father,  by 
claiming  some  old  debt  1 There  might  be  many  between  him 
and  the  doctor.  And  Tom’s  heart  beat  fast,  as  Jane  put  a letter 
into  his  hand. 

“ No  answer,  Sir,  the  clerk  says.” 

Tom  opened  it,  and  turned  over  the  contents  more  than  once 
ere  he  could  believe  his  own  eyes. 

It  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a cheque  on  Mark’s  London 
banker  for  just  five  hundred  pounds. 

A half-sheet  was  wrapped  round  it,  on  which  were  written 
these  words  : — 

“ To  Thomas  Thurnall,  Esq.  for  behaving  like  a gentleman. 
The  cheque  will  be  duly  honoured  at  Messrs.  Smith,  Brown,  and 
Jones,  Lombard  Street.  Ho  acknowledgment  is  to  be  sent. 
Don’t  tell  your  father. 

“ Mark  Armsworth.” 

“ Queer  old  world  it  is  ! ” said  Tom,  when  the  first  burst  of 
childish  delight  was  over.  “ And  jolly  old  flirt,  Dame  Fortune, 
after  all ! If  I had  written  this  in  a book  now,  who’d  have 
believed  it  ? ” 

“ Father,”  said  he,  as  he  kissed  the  old  man  farewell,  “ I’ve  a 
little  money  come  in.  I’ll  send  you  fifty  from  London  in  a day 
or  two,  and  lodge  a hundred  and  fifty  more  with  Smith  and  Co. 
So  you’ll  be  quite  in  clover  while  I am  poisoning  the  Turkeys, 
or  at  some  better  work.” 

The  old  man  thanked  God  for  his  good  son,  and  only  hoped 
that  he  was  not  straitening  himself  to  buy  luxuries  for  a useless 
old  fellow. 

Another  sacred  kiss  on  that  white  head,  and  Tom  was  away 
for  London,  with  a fuller  purse,  and  a more  self-contented  heart 
too,  than  he  had  known  for  many  a year. 

And  Elsley  was  left  behind,  under  the  grey  church  spire, 
sleeping  with  his  fathers,  and  vexing  his  soul  with  poetry  no 
more.  Mark  has  covered  him  now  with  a fair  Portland  slab.  He 


TOO  LATE. 


451 


took  Claude  Mellot  to  it  this  winter  before  church  time,  and 
stood  over  it  long  with  a puzzled  look,  as  if  dimly  discovering 
that  there  were  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  were 
dreamed  of  in  his  philosophy. 

“ Wonderful  fellow  he  was,  after  all ! Mary  shall  read  us  out' 
some  of  his  verses  to-night.  But,  I say,  why  should  people  be 
born  clever,  only  to  make  them  all  the  more  miserable  ? ” 

“ Perhaps  they  learn  the  more,  papa,  by  their  sorrows,”  said 
quiet  little  Mary  ; “ and  so  they  are  the  gainers  after  all.” 

And  none  of  them  having  any  better  answer  to  give,  they  all 
three  .went  into  the  church,  to  see  if  one  could  be  found  there. 

And  so  Tom  Thurnall,  too,  went  Eastward-Ho,  to  take,  like  all 
the  rest,  what  God  might  send. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TOO  LATE. 

And  how  was  poor  Grace  Harvey  prospering  the  while  ? 
While  comfortable  folks  were  praising  her,  at  their  leisure,  as  a 
heroine,  Grace  Harvey  was  learning,  so  she  opined,  by  fearful 
lessons,  how  much  of  the  unheroic  element  was  still  left  in  her. 
The  first  lesson  had  come  just  a week  after  the  yacht  sailed  for 
Port  Madoc,  when  the  cholera  had  all  but  subsided ; and  it 
came  in  this  wise.  Before  breakfast  one  morning  she  had  to  go 
up  to  Heale’s  shop  for  some  cordial.  Her  mother  had  passed,  so 
she  said,  a sleepless  night,  and  come  down  stairs  nervous  and 
without  appetite,  oppressed  with  melancholy,  both  in  the  spiritual 
and  the  physical  sense  of  the  word.  It  was  not  often  so  with 
her  now.  She  had  escaped  the  cholera.  The  remoteness  of  her 
house ; her  care  never  to  enter  the  town ; the  purity  of  the 
water,  which  trickled  always  fresh  from  the  cliff  close  by ; and 
last,  but  not  least,  the  scrupulous  cleanliness  which  (to  do 
her  justice)  she  had  always  observed,  and  in  which  she  had 
trained  up  Grace, — all  these  had  kept  her  safe. 

But  Grace  could  see  that  her  dread  of  the  cholera  was  intense. 
She  even  tried  at  first  to  prevent  Grace  from  entering  an  infected 
house ; but  that  proposal  was  answered  by  a look  of  horror 
which  shamed  her  into  silence,  and  she  contented  herself  with 
all  but  tabooing  Grace  ; making  her  change  her  clothes  whenever 
she  came  in ; refusing  to  sit  with  her,  almost  to  eat  with  her. 
But,  over  and  above  all  this,  she  had  grown  moody,  peevish, 
subject  to  violent  bursts  of  crying,  fits  of  superstitious  depression ; 
spent,  sometimes,  whole  days  in  reading  experimental  books, 
arguing  with  the  preachers,  gadding  to  and  fro  to  every  sermon, 

G g 2 


452 


TOO  LATE. 


Arminian  or  Calvinist ; and  at  last  even  to  Church — walking  in 
dry  places,  poor  soul ; seeking  rest,  and  finding  none. 

All  this  betokened  some  malady  of  the  mind,  rather  than  of 
the  body ; but  what  that  malady  was,  Grace  dare  not  even  try 
to  guess.  Perhaps  it  was  one  of  the  fits  of  religious  melancholy 
so  common  in  the  West  country — like  her  own,  in  fact : perhaps 
it  was  all  “ nerves.”  Her  mother  was  growing  old,  and  had  a 
great  deal  of  business  to  worry  her ; and  so  Grace  thrust  away 
the  horrible  suspicion  by  little  self-deceptions. 

She  went  into  the  shop.  Tom  was  busy  upon  his  knees 
behind  the  counter.  She  made  her  request. 

“ Ah,  Miss  Harvey ! ” and  he  sprang  up.  “ It  will  be  a 
pleasure  to  serve  you  once  more  in  one’s  life.  I am  iust  going. ” 

“ Going  wdiere  h ” 

“To  Turkey.  I find  this  place  too  pleasant  and  too  poor. 
Hot  work  enough,  and  certainly  not  pay  enough.  So  I have  got 
an  appointment  as  surgeon  in  the  Turkish  contingent,  and  shall 
be  off  in  an  hour.” 

“ To  Turkey ! to  the  war  h ” 

“ Yes.  It’s  a long  time  since  I have  seen  any  fighting.  I am 
quite  out  of  practice  in  gunshot  wounds.  There  is  the  medicine. 
Good  bye  ! You  will  shake  hands  once,  for  the  sake  of  our  late 
cholera  work  together.” 

Grace  held  out  her  hand  mechanically  across  the  counter,  and 
he  took  it.  But  she  did  not  look  into  his  face.  Only  she  said, 
half  to  herself, — 

“Well,  better  so.  I have  no  doubt  you  will  be  very  useful 
among  them.” 

“ Confound  the  icicle  ! ” thought  Tom.  “ I really  believe  that 
she  wants  to  get  rid  of  me.”  And  he  would  have  withdrawn 
his  hand  in  a pet : but  she  held  it  still. 

Quaint  it  was  ; those  two  strong  natures,  each  loving  the  other 
better  than  anything  else  on  earth,  and  yet  parted  by  the  thinnest 
pane  of  ice,  wThich  a single  look  would  have  melted.  She  longing 
to  follow  that  man  over  the  wide  world,  slave  for  him,  die  for 
him ; he  longing  for  the  least  excuse  for  making  a fool  of  him- 
self, and  crying,  “ Take  me,  as  I take  you,  without  a penny,  for 
better,  for  worse  ! ” If  their  eyes  had  but  met ! But  they  did 
not  meet ; and  the  pane  of  ice  kept  them  asunder  as  surely  as  a 
wall  of  iron. 

Was  it  that  Tom  was  piqued  at  her  seeming  coldness ; or  did 
he  expect,  before  he  made  any  advances,  that  she  should  show 
that  she  wished  at  least  for  his  respect,  by  saying  something  to 
clear  up  the  ugly  question  which  lay  between  them  ? Or  was 
he,  as  I suspect,  so  ready  to  melt,  and  make  a fool  of  himself, 
that  he  must  needs  harden  his  own  heart  by  help  of  the  devil 


TOO  LATE. 


453 


himself?  And  yet  there  are  excuses  for  him.  It  would  have 
been  a sore  trial  to  any  man’s  temper  to  quit  Aberalva  in  the 
belief  that  he  left  fifteen  hundred  pounds  behind  him.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  he  said  carelessly,  after  a moment’s  pause, — 

“ Well,  farewell ! And,  by  the  bye,  about  that  little  money 
matter.  The  month  of  which  you  spoke  once  was  up  yesterday. 
I suppose  I am  not  worthy  yet ; so  I shall  be  humble,  and 
wait  patiently.  Don’t  hurry  yourself,  I beg  of  you,  on  my 
account.” 

She  snatched  her  hand  frpm  his  without  a word,  and  rushed 
out  of  the  shop. 

He  returned  to  his  packing,  whistling  away  as  shrill  as  any 
blackbird. 

Little  did  he  think  that  Grace’s  heart  was  bursting,  as  she 
hurried  down  the  street,  covering  her  face  in  her  veil,  as  if  every 
one  would  espy  her  dark  secret  in  her  countenance. 

But  she  did  not  go  home  to  hysterics  and  vain  tears.  An 
awful  purpose  had  arisen  in  her  mind,  under  the  pressure  of  that 
great  agony.  Heavens,  how  she  loved  that  man  ! To  be  sus- 
pected by  him  was  torture.  But  she  could  bear  that.  It  was 
her  cross ; she  could  carry  it,  lie  down  on  it,  and  endure  : but 
wrong  him  she  could  not — would  not  ! It  was  sinful  enough 
while  he  was  there  ; but  doubly,  unbearably  sinful,  when  he  was 
going  to  a foreign  country,  when  he  would  need  every  farthing 
he  had.  So  not  for  her  own  sake,  but  for  his,  she  spoke  to  her 
mother  when  she  went  home,  and  found  her  sitting  over  her 
Bible  in  the  little  parlour,  vainly  trying  to  find  a text  which 
suited  her  distemper. 

“ Mother,  you  have  the  Bible  before  you  there.” 

“ Yes,  child  ! Why  ? What  ? ” asked  she,  looking  up  un- 
easily. 

Grace  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  ground.  She  could  not  look  her 
mother  in  the  face. 

“ Do  you  ever  read  the  thirty-second  Psalm,  mother?  ” 

“Which?  Why  not,  child?” 

“ Let  us  read  it  together  then,  now.” 

And  Grace,  taking  up  her  own  Bible,  sat  quietly  down  and 
lead,  as  none  in  that  parish  save  she  could  read  : 

“ Blessed  is  he  whose  transgression  is  forgiven,  and  whose  sin 
is  covered. 

“ Blessed  is  the  man  unto  whom  the  Lord  imputeth  not  in- 
iquity, and  in  whose  spirit  there  is  no  guile. 

“ When  I kept  silence,  my  bones  waxed  old,  through  my 
groaning  all  the  day  long. 

“ For  day  and  night  Thy  hand  was  heavy  upon  me ; my  mois- 
ture is  turned  to  the  drought  of  summer. 


454 


TOO  LATE. 


44 1 acknowledge  my  sin  unto  Thee,  and  mine  iniquity  have  I 
not  hid. 

44  I said,  I will  confess  my  transgressions  unto  the  Lord  ; and 
Thou  forgavest  the  iniquity  of  my  sin.” 

Grace  stopped,  choked  with  tears  which  the  pathos  of  her 
own  voice  had  called  up.  She  looked  at  her  mother.  There  were 
no  tears  in  her  eyes  : only  a dull  thwart  look  of  terror  and  sus- 
picion. The  shaft,  however  bravely  and  cunningly  sped,  had 
missed  its  mark. 

Poor  Grace  ! Her  usual  eloquence  utterly  failed  her,  as  most 
things  do  in  which  one  is  wont  to  trust,  before  the  pressure  of  a 
real  and  horrible  evil.  She  had  no  heart  to  make  hne  sentencesr 
to  preach  a brilliant  sermon  of  common-places.  What  could  she 
say  that  her  mother  had  not  known  long  before  she  was  born  ? 
And  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  at  her  mother’s  feet,  she 
grasped  both  her  hands  and  looked  into  her  face  imploringly, — 
44  Mother  ! mother  ! mother  ! ” was  all  that  she  could  say  : but 
their  tone  meant  more  than  all  words. — Eeproof,  counsel,  comfort, 
utter  tenderness,  and  under-current  of  clear  deep  trust,  bubbling 
up  from  beneath  all  passing  suspicions,  however  dark  and  foul, 
were  in  it : but  they  were  vain. 

Laser  terror,  the  parent  of  baser  suspicion,  had  hardened  that 
woman’s  heart  for  the  while ; and  all  she  answered  was, — 

44  Get  up  ! What  is  this  foolery  ? ” 

44 1 will  not ! I will  not  rise  till  you  have  told  me.” 

44  What  ?” 

44  Whether” — and  she  forced  the  words  slowly  out  in  a low 
whisper,  44  whether  you  know — anything  of — of — Mr.  Thurnall’s 
money — his  belt  ? ” 

44 Is  the  girl  mad?  Pelt?  Money?  Do  you  take  me  for  a 
thief,  wench  ? ” 

44  Ho  ! no  ! no  ! Only  say  you — you  know  nothing  of  it  ! ” 

44  Psha  ! girl ! Go  to  your  school  : ” and  the  old  woman  tried 
to  rise. 

44  Only  say  that  ! only  let  me  know  that  it  is  a dream — a 
hideous  dream  which  the  devil  put  into  my  wicked,  wicked  heart 
— and  let  me  know  that  I am  the  basest,  meanest  of  daughters 
for  harbouring  such  a thought  a moment ! It  will  be  comfort, 
bliss,  to  what  I endure  ! Only  say  that,  and  I will  crawl  to  your 
feet,  and  beg  for  your  forgiveness, — ask  you  to  beat  me,  like  a 
child,  as  I shall  deserve  ! Drive  me  out,  if  you  will,  and  let 
me  die,  as  I shall  deserve  ! Only  say  the  word,  and  take  this 
fire  from  before  my  eyes,  which  burns  day  and  night, — till  my 
brain  is  dried  up  with  misery  and  shame  ! Mother,  mother,, 
speak  ! ” 

Put  then  burst  out  the  horrible  suspicion,  which  falsehood,. 


TOO  LATE.  455 

suspecting  all  others  of  being  false  as  itself,  had  engendered  in 
that  mother’s  heart. 

“ Yes,  viper  ! I see  your  plan  ! Do  you  think  I do  not  know 
that  you  are  in  love  with  that  fellow  ? ” 

Grace  started  as  if  she  had  been  shot,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

44  Yes  ! and  want  me  to  betray  myself — to  tell  a lie  about 
myself,  that  you  may  curry  favour  with  him — a peniless,  un- 
believing— ” 

“ Mother  ! ” almost  shrieked  Grace,  “ I can  bear  no  more  ! 
Say  that  it  is  a lie,  and  then  kill  me  if  you  will ! ” 

44  It  is  a lie,  from  beginning  to  end  ! What  else  should  it  be  ? ” 
And  the  woman,  in  the  hurry  of  her  passion,  confirmed  the 
equivocation  with  an  oath ; and  then  ran  on,  as  if  to  turn  her 
own  thoughts,  as  well  as  Grace’s,  into  commonplaces  about  44  a 
poor  old  mother,  who  cares  for  nothing  but  you  ; who  has  worked 
her  fingers  to  the  bone  for  years  to  leave  you  a little  money  when 
she  is  gone  ! I wish  I were  gone  ! I wish  I were  out  of  this 
wretched  ungrateful  world,  I do  ! To  have  my  own  child  turn 
against  me  in  my  old  age  ! ” 

Grace  lifted  her  hands  from  her  face,  and  looked  steadfastly  at 
her  mother.  And  behold,  she  knew  not  how  or  why,  she  felt 
that  her  mother  had  forsworn  herself.  A strong  shudder  passed 
through  her  ; she  rose  and  was  leaving  the  room  in  silence. 

44 Where  are  you  going,  hussy?  Stop  !”  screamed  her  mother 
between  her  teeth,  her  rage  and  cruelty  rising,  as  it  will  with 
weak  natures,  in  the  very  act  of  triumph, — 44  to  your  young 
man?” 

44  To  pray,”  said  Grace  quietly ; and  locking  herself  into  the 
empty  schoolroom,  gave  vent  to  all  her  feelings,  but  not  in  tears. 

How  she  upbraided  herself  1 — She  had  not  used  her  strength  ; 
she  had  not  told  her  mother  all  her  heart.  And  yet  how  could 
she  tell  her  heart  ? How  face  her  mother  with  such  vague  sus- 
picions, hardly  supported  by  a single  fact?  How  argue  it  out 
against  her  like  a lawyer,  and  convict  her  to  her  face  ? What 
daughter  could  do  that,  who  had  human  love  and  reverence  left 
in  her  ? Ho  ! to  touch  her  inward  witness,  as  the  Quakers  well 
and  truly  term  it,  was  the  only  method  : and  it  had  failed. 
44  God  help  me!”  was  her  only  cry  : but  the  help  did  not  come 
yet ; there  came  over  her  instead  a feeling  of  utter  loneliness. 
Willis  dead  ; Thurnall  gone ; her  mother  estranged ; and,  like 
a child  lost  upon  a great  moor,  she  looked  round  all  heaven  and 
earth,  and  there  was  none  to  counsel,  none  to  guide — perhaps 
not  even  God.  For  would  He  help  her  as  long  as  she  lived  in 
sin  ? And  was  she  not  living  in  sin,  deadly  sin,  as  long  as  she 
knew  what  she  was  sure  she  knew,  and  left  the  wrong  unrighted  ? 


456 


TOO  LATE. 


It  is  sometimes  true,  the  popular  saying,  that  sunshine 
comes  after  storm.  Sometimes  true,  or  who  could  live  ? hut  not 
always  : not  even  often.  Equally  true  is  the  popular  antithet, 
that  misfortunes  never  come  single ; that  in  most  human  lives 
there  are  periods  of  trouble,  blow  following  blow,  wave  following 
wave,  from  opposite  and  unexpected  quarters,  with  no  natural 
or  logical  sequence,  till  all  God’s  billows  have  gone  over  the 
soul. 

How  paltry  and  helpless,  in  such  dark  times,  are  all  theories 
•of  mere  self-education ; all  proud  attempts,  like  that  of  Gothe’ s 
Wilhelm  Meister,  to  hang  self-poised  in  the  centre  of  the  abyss, 
and  there  organize  for  oneself  a character  by  means  of  circum- 
stances ! Easy  enough,  and  graceful  enough  does  that  dream 
look,  while  all  the  circumstances  themselves — all  which  stands 
around — are  easy  and  graceful,  obliging  and  commonplace,  like 
the  sphere  of  petty  experiences  with  which  Gothe  surrounds  his 
insipid  hero.  Easy  enough  it  seems  for  a man  to  educate  him- 
self without  God,  as  long  as  he  lies  comfortably  on  a sofa,  with 
a cup  of  coffee  and  a review  : but  what  if  that  “ daemonic 
element  of  the  universe,”  which  Gothe  confessed,  and  yet  in  his 
luxuriousness  tried  to  ignore,  because  he  could  not  explain — 
what  if  that  broke  forth  over  the  graceful  and  prosperous  student, 
as  it  may  any  moment  ? What  if  some  thing,  or  some  person, 
or  many  things,  or  many  persons,  one  after  the  other  (questions 
which  he  must  get  answered  then,  or  die),  took  him  up  and 
dashed  him  down,  again,  and  again,  and  again,  till  he  was  ready 
to  cry,  “ I reckoned  till  morning  that  like  a lion  he  will  break 
all  my  bones ; from  morning  till  evening  he  will  make  an  end  of 
me  ” ? What  if  he  thus  found  himself  hurled  perforce  amid 
the  real  universal  experiences  of  humanity ; and  made  free,  in 
spite  of  himself,  by  doubt  and  fear  and  horror  of  great  darkness, 
of  the  brotherhood  of  woe,  common  alike  to  the  simplest  peasant- 
woman,  and  to  every  great  soul  perhaps,  who  has  left  his  impress 
and  sign  manual  upon  the  hearts  of  after  generations  ? Jew, 
Heathen,  or  Christian  ; men  of  the  most  opposite  creeds  and 
aims  ; whether  it  be  Moses  or  Socrates,  Isaiah  or  Epictetus, 
Augustine  or  Mohammed,  Dante  or  Bernard,  Shakspeare  or 
Bacon,  or  Gothe’ s self,  no  doubt,  though  in  his  tremendous 
pride  he  would  not  confess  it  even  to  himself, — each  and  all  of 
them  have  this  one  fact  in  common — that  once  in  their  lives,  at 
least,  they  have  gone  down  into  the  bottomless  pit,  and  “ stato 
,all’  inferno  ” — as  the  children  used  truly  to  say  of  Dante  ; and 
there,  out  of  the  utter  darkness,  have  asked  the  question  of  all 
questions — “Is  there  a God?  And  if  there  be,  what  is  He 
doing  with  me  ? ” 

What  refuge  then  in  self-education ; when  a man  feels  himself 


TOO  LATE. 


457 


powerless  in  the  gripe  of  some  unseen  and  inevitable  power,  and 
knows  not  whether  it  be  chance,  or  necessity,  or  a devouring 
fiend]  To  wrap  himself  sternly  in  himself,  and  cry,  “I  will 
endure,  though  all  the  universe  be  against  me ; ” — how  fine  it 
sounds  ! — But  who  has  done  it  ? Could  a man  do  it  perfectly 
but  for  one  moment, — could  he  absolutely  and  utterly  for  one 
moment  isolate  himself,  and  accept  his  own  isolation  as  a fact, 
he  were  then  and  there  a madman  or  a suicide.  As  it  is,  his 
nature,  happily  too  weak  for  that  desperate  self-assertion,  falls 
back  recklessly  on  some  form,  more  or  less  graceful  according  to 
the  temperament,  of  the  ancient  panacea,  “ Let  us  eat  and  drink, 
for  to-morrow  we  die.”  Why  should  a man  educate  self,  when 
he  knows  not  whither  he  goes,  what  will  befall  him  to-night  ] 
~Ho.  There  is  but  one  escape,  one  chink  through  which  we  may 
see  light,  one  rock  on  which  our  feet  may  find  standing-place, 
even  in  the  abyss : and  that  is  the  belief,  intuitive,  inspired,  due 
neither  to  reasoning  nor  to  study,  that  the  billows  are  God’s 
billows ; and  that  though  w~e  go  down  to  hell,  He  is  there  also ; 
— the  belief  that  not  we,  but  He,  is  educating  us  ; that  these 
seemingly  fantastic  and  incoherent  miseries,  storm  following 
earthquake,  and  earthquake  fire,  as  if  the  caprice  of  all  the 
demons  were  let  loose  against  us,  have  in  His  Mind  a spiritual 
coherence,  an  organic  unity  and  purpose  (though  we  see  it  not) ; 
that  sorrows  do  not  come  singly,  only  because  He  is  making 
short  work  with  our  spirits ; and  because  the  more  effect  He  sees 
produced  by  one  blow,  the  more  swiftly  He  follows  it  up  by 
another ; till,  in  one  great  and  varied  crisis,  seemingly  long  to 
us,  but  short  enough  compared  with  immortality,  our  spirits 
may  be — 

‘ 1 Heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 

And  bathed  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  battered  with  the  strokes  of  doom, 

To  shape  and  use.  ” 

And  thus,  perhaps,  it  was  with  poor  Grace  Harvey.  At  least, 
'happily  for  her,  she  began  after  a while  to  think  that  it  was  so. 
Only  after  a while,  though.  There  was  at  first  a phase  of 
repining,  of  doubt,  almost  of  indignation  against  high  heaven. 
Who  shall  judge  her  ] What  blame  if  the  crucified  one  writhe 
when  the  first  nail  is  driven  ] What  blame  if  the  stoutest  turn 
sick  and  giddy  at  the  first  home-thrust  of  that  sword  which 
pierces  the  joints  and  marrow,  and  lays  bare  to  self  the  secrets 
of  the  heart  ] God  gives  poor  souls  time  to  recover  their 
breaths,  ere  He  strikes  again ; and  if  He  be  not  angry,  why 
should  we  condemn  ? 

Poor  Grace  ! Her  sorrows  had  been  thickening  fast  during 
fhe  last  few  months.  She  was  schoolmistress  again,  true  ; but 


458 


TOO  LATE. 


where  were  her  children  ] Those  of  them  whom  she  loved  best, 
were  swept  away  by  the  cholera  ; and  could  she  face  the  remnant, 
each  in  mourning  for  a parent  or  a brother  ? That  alone  was 
grief  enough  for  her ; and  yet  that  was  the  lightest  of  all  her 
griefs.  She  loved  Tom  Thurnall — how  much,  she  dared  not  tell 
herself ; she  longed  to  “ save  ” him.  She  had  thought,  and  not 
untruly,  during  the  past  cholera  weeks,  that  he  was  softened, 
opened  to  new  impressions : but  he  had  avoided  her  more  than  ever 
— perhaps  suspected  her  again  more  than  ever — and  now  he  was 
gone,  gone  for  ever.  That,  too,  was  grief  enough  alone.  But  darkest 
and  deepest  of  all,  darker  and  deeper  than  the  past  shame  of 
being  suspected  by  him  she  loved,  was  the  shame  of  suspecting 
her  own  mother — of  believing  herself,  as  she  did,  privy  to  that 
shameful  theft,  and  yet  unable  to  make  restitution.  There  was 
the  horror  of  all  horrors,  the  close  prison  which  seemed  to  stifle 
her  whole  soul.  The  only  chink  through  which  a breath  of  air 
seemed  to  come,  and  keep  her  heart  alive,  was  the  hope  that 
some  how,  some  where,  she  might  find  that  belt,  and  restore  it 
without  her  mother’s  knowledge. 

But  more — the  first  of  September  was  come  and  gone  ; the 
bill  for  five-and- twenty  pounds  was  due,  and  was  not  met.  Grace, 
choking  down  her  honest  pride,  went  off  to  the  grocer,  and,  with 
tears  which  he  could  not  resist,  persuaded  him  to  renew  the  bill 
for  one  month  more  ; and  now  that  month  was  all  but  past,  and 
yet  there  was  no  money.  Eight  or  ten  people  who  owed  Mrs. 
Harvey  money  had  died  of  the  cholera.  Some,  of  course,  had 
left  no  effects ; and  all  hope  of  their  working  out  their  debts 
was  gone.  Some  had  left  money  behind  them  : but  it  was 
still  in  the  lawyer’s  hands,  some  of  it  at  sea,  some  on  mort- 
gage, some  in  houses  which  must  be  sold  ; till  their  affairs 
were  wound  up — (a  sadly  slow  affair  when  a country  attorney 
has  a poor  man’s  unprofitable  business  to  transact) — nothing 
could  come  in  to  Mrs.  Harvey.  To  and  fro  she  went  with 
knitted  brow  and  heavy  heart ; and  brought  home  again  only 
promises,  as  she  had  done  a hundred  times  before.  One  day  she 
went  up  to  Mrs.  Heale.  Old  Heale  owed  her  thirteen  pounds 
and  more  : but  that  was  not  the  least  reason  for  paying.  His 
cholera  patients  had  not  paid  him  ; and  whether  Heale  bad  the 
money  by  him  or  not,  he  was  not  going  to  pay  his  debts  till 
other  people  paid  theirs.  Mrs.  Harvey  stormed ; Mrs.  Heale 
gave  her  as  good  as  she  brought ; and  Mrs.  Harvey  threatened  to 
County  Court  her  husband  ; whereon  Mrs.  Heale,  en  revanche , 
dragged  out  the  books,  and  displayed  to  the  poor  widow’s  horror- 
struck  eyes  an  account  for  medicine  and  attendance,  on  her  and 
Grace,  which  nearly  swallowed  up  the  debt.  Poor  Grace  was 
overwhelmed  when  her  mother  came  home  and  upbraided  her,  in 


TOO  LATE. 


459 


her  despair,  with  being  a burden.  Was  she  not  a burden  ? Must 
she  not  be  one  henceforth1?  No,  she  would  take  in  needlework, 
labour  in  the  fields,  heave  ballast  among  the  coarse  pauper-girls 
on  the  quay-pool,  anything  rather  : but  how  to  meet  the  present 
difficulty  ? 

“ We  must  sell  our  furniture,  mother  ! ” 

“ For  a quarter  of  what  it’s  worth  ? Never,  girl ! No  ! 
The  Lord  will  provide,”  said  she,  between  her  clenched  teeth, 
with  a sort  of  hysteric  chuckle.  “ The  Lord  will  provide  ! ” 

“ I believe  it ; I believe  it,”  said  poor  Grace  ; “ but  faith  is 
weak,  and  the  day  is  very  dark,  mother.” 

“ Dark,  ay  h And  may  be  darker,  yet ; but  the  Lord  will  pro- 
vide. He  prepares  a table  in  the  wilderness  for  his  saints  that 
the  world  don’t  think  of.” 

“ Oh,  mother  ! and  do  you  think  there  is  any  door  of  hope  ? 

“ Go  to  bed,  girl ; go  to  bed,  and  leave  me  to  see  to  that. 
Find  my  spectacles.  Wherever  have  you  laid  them  to,  now  t 
I’ll  look  over  the  books  awhile.” 

“Do  let  me  go  over  them  for  you.” 

“No,  you  shan’t ! I suppose  you’ll  be  wanting  to  make  out 
your  poor  old  mother’s  been  cheating  somebody.  Why  not,  if 
I’m  a thief,  Miss,  eh  ? ” 

“ Oh,  mother  ! mother  ! don’t  say  that  again.” 

And  Grace  glided  out  meekly  to  her  own  chamber,  which  was 
on  the  ground-floor  adjoining  the  parlour,  and  there  spent  more 
than  one  hour  in  prayer,  from  which  no  present  comfort  seemed 
to  come ; yet  who  shall  say  that  it  was  all  unanswered  ? 

At  last  her  mother  came  up-stairs,  and  put  her  head  in  angrily 
— “ Why  ben’t  you  in  bed,  girl  ? sitting  up  this  way  ? ” 

“ I was  praying,  mother,”  says  Grace,  looking  up  as  she  knelt. 
“ Praying  ! What’s  the  use  of  praying?  and  who’ll  hear  you 
if  you  pray  ? What  you  want’s  a husband,  to  keep  you  out  of 
the  workhouse  ; and  you  won’t  get  that  by  kneeling  here.  Get 
to  bed,  I say,  or  I’ll  pull  you  up  ! ” 

Grace  obeyed  uncomplaining,  but  utterly  shocked;  though 
she  was  not  unacquainted  with  those  frightful  fits  of  morose 
unbelief,  even  of  fierce  blasphemy,  to  which  the  excitable  West- 
country  mind  is  liable,  after  having  been  over-strained  by  super- 
stitious self-inspection,  and  by  the  desperate  attempt  to  prove 
itself  right  and  safe  from  frames  and  feelings,  while  fact  and 
conscience  proclaim  it  wrong. 

The  West-country  people  are  apt  to  attribute  these  paroxysms 
to  the  possession  of  a devil ; and  so  did  Grace  that  night. 

Trembling  with  terror  and  loving  pity,  she  lay  down,  and 
began  to  pray  afresh  for  that  poor  wild  mother. 

At  last  the  fear  crossed  her  that  her  mother  might  make  away 


460 


TOO  LATE. 


with  herself.  But  a few  years  before,  another  class-leader  in 
Aberalva  had  attempted  to  do  so,  and  had  all  but  succeeded. 
The  thought  was  intolerable.  She  must  go  to  her ; face  re- 
proaches, blows,  anything.  She  rose  from  her  bed,  and  went  to 
the  door.  It  was  fastened  on  the  outside.  ' 

A cold  perspiration  stood  on  her  forehead.  She  opened  her  lips 
to  shriek  to  her  mother  : but  checked  herself  when  she  heard 
her  stirring  gently  in  the  outer  room.  Her  pulses  throbbed  too 
loudly  at  first  for  her  to  hear  distinctly : but  she  felt  that  it  was 
no  moment  for  giving  way  to  emotion ; by  a strong  effort  of  will, 
she  conquered  herself ; and  then,  with  that  preternatural  acute- 
ness of  sense  which  some  women  possess,  she  could  hear  every- 
thing her  mother  was  doing.  She  heard  her  put  on  her  shawl, 
her  bonnet ; she  heard  her  open  the  front  door  gently.  It  was 
now  long  past  midnight.  Whither  could  she  be  going  at  that 
hour] 

She  heard  her  go  gently  to  the  left,  past  the  window ; and  yet 
her  footfall  was  all  but  inaudible.  No  rain  had  fallen,  and  her 
shoes  ought  to  have  sounded  on  the  hard  earth.  She  must  have 
taken  them  off.  There,  she  was  stopping,  just  by  the  school- 
door.  Now  she  moved  again.  She  must  have  stopped  to  put 
on  her  shoes ; for  now  Grace  could  hear  her  steps  distinctly, 
down  the  earth  bank,  and  over  the  rattling  shingle  of  the  beach. 
Where  was  she  going  ] Grace  must  follow  ! 

The  door  was  fast : but  in  a moment  she  had  removed  the 
table,  opened  the  shutter  and  the  window. 

“ Thank  God  that  I stayed  here  on  the  ground  floor,  instead 
of  going  back  to  my  own  room  when  Major  Campbell  left.  It 
is  a providence  ! The  Lord  has  not  forsaken  me  yet !”  said  the 
sweet  saint,  as,  catching  up  her  shawl,  she  wrapped  it  round  her, 
and  slipping  through  the  window,  crouched  under  the  shadow 
of  the  house,  and  looked  for  her  mother. 

She  was  hurrying  over  the  rocks,  a hundred  yards  off.  Whither  ] 
To  drown  herself  in  the  sea  ] No ; she  held  on  along  the  mid- 
beach, right  across  the  cove,  toward  Arthur’s  Nose.  But  why  ] 
Grace  must  know. 

She  felt,  she  knew  not  why,  that  this  strange  journey,  that 
wild  “The  Lord  will  provide,”  had  to  do  with  the  subject  of 
her  suspicion.  Perhaps  this  was  the  crisis  ; perhaps  all  will  be 
cleared  up  to-night,  for  joy  or  for  utter  shame. 

The  tide  was  low  ; the  beach  was  bright  in  the  western  moon- 
light : only  along  the  cliff  foot  lay  a strip  of  shadow  a quarter 
of  a mile,  long,  till  the  Nose,  like  a great  black  wall,  buried  the 
corner  of  the  cove  in  darkness. 

Along  that  strip  of  shadow  she  ran,  crouching  ; now  stumbling 
over  a boulder,  now  crushing  her  bare  feet  between  the  sharp 


TOO  LATE. 


461 


pebbles,  as,  heedless  wnere  she  stepped,  she  kept  her  eye  fixed 
on  her  another.  As  if  fascinated,  she  could  see  nothing  else  in 
heaven  oX  earth  but  that  dark  figure,  hurrying  along  with  a 
dogged  determination,  and  then  stopping  a moment  to  look 
round,  as  if  in  fear  of  a pursuer.  And  then  Grace  lay  down  on 
the  cold  stones,  and  pressed  herself  into  the  very  earth ; and  the 
moment  her  mother  turned  to  go  forward,  sprang  up  and  followed. 

And  then  a true  woman’s  thought  flashed  across  her,  and 
shaped  itself  intb  a prayer.  Tor  herself  she  never  thought  : but 
if  the  Coast  Guardsman  above  should  see  her  mother,  stop  her, 
question  her?  God  grant  that  he  might  be  on  the  other  side 
of  the  point ! And  she  hurried  on  again. 

Near  the  Nose  the  rocks  ran  high  and  jagged ; her  mother  held 
on  to  them,  passed  through  a narrow  chasm,  and  disappeared. 

Grace  now,  not  fifty  yards  from  her,  darted  out  of  the  shadow 
into  the  moonlight,  and  ran  breathlessly  toward  the  spot  where 
she  had  seen  her  mother  last.  Like  Anderssen’s  little  sea-maiden 
she  went,  every  step  on  sharp  knives,  across  the  rough  beds  of 
barnacles ; but  she  felt  no  pain,  in  the  greatness  of  her  terror 
and  her  love. 

She  crouched  between  the  rocks  a moment ; heard  her  mother 
slipping  and  splashing  among  the  pools ; and  glided  after  her 
like  a ghost — a guardian  angel  rather — till  she  saw  her  emerge 
again  for  a moment  into  the  moonlight,  upon  a strip  of  beach 
beneath  the  Nose. 

It  was  a weird  and  lonely  spot ; and  a dangerous  spot  withal. 
Lor  only  at  low  spring-tide  could  it  be  reached  from  the  land, 
and  then  the  flood  rose  far  up  the  cliff,  covering  all  the  shingle, 
and  filling  the  mouth  of  a dark  cavern.  Had  her  mother  gone 
to  that  cavern  ? It  was  impossible  to  see,  so  utterly  was  the  cliff 
shrouded  in  shadow. 

Shivering  with  cold  and  excitement,  Grace  crouched  down,  and 
gazed  into  the  gloom,  till  her  eyes  swam,  and  a hundred  fantastic 
figures,  and  sparks  of  fire,  seemed  to  dance  between  her  and  the 
rock.  Sparks  of  fire  ! — yes ; but  that  last  one  was  no  fancy.  An 
actual  flash  ; the  crackle  and  sputter  of  a match  ! What  could 
it  mean  ? Another  match  was  lighted ; and  a moment  after,  the 
glare  of  a lanthorn  showed  her  her  mother  entering  beneath  the 
polished  arch  of  rock  which  glared  lurid  overhead,  like  the  gate- 
way of  the  pit  of  fire. 

The  light  vanished  into  the  windings  of  the  cave.  And  then 
Grace,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  rushed  up  the  beach,  and 
crouched  down  once  more  at  the  cave’s  mouth.  There  she  sat, 
she  knew  not  how  long,  listening,  listening,  like  a hunted  hare ; 
her  whole  faculties  concentrated  in  the  one  sense  of  hearing ; her 
eyes  wandering  vacantly  over  the  black  saws  of  rock,  and  glisten- 


462 


TOO  LATE, 


ing  oar-weed  "beds,  and  bright  phosphoric  sea.  Thank  Heaven, 
there  was  not  a ripple  to  break  the  silence.  Ah,  what  was  that 
sound  within  ? She  pressed  her  ear  against  the  rock,  to  hear 
more  surely.  A rumbling  as  of  stones  rolled  down.  And  then, 
— was  it  a fancy,  or  were  her  powers  of  hearing,  intensified  by 
excitement,  actually  equal  to  discern  the  chink  of  coin  h Who 
knows  ? but  in  another  moment  she  had  glided  in,  silently, 
swiftly,  holding  her  very  breath ; and  saw  her  mother  kneeling 
on  the  ground,  the  lanthorn  by  her  side,  and  in  her  hand  the 
long-lost  belt. 

She  did  not  speak,  she  did  not  move.  She  always  knew,  in 
her  heart  of  hearts,  that  so  it  was  : but  when  the  sin  took  bodily 
shape,  and  was  there  before  her  very  eyes,  it  was  too  dreadful  to 
speak  of,  to  act  upon  yet.  And  amid  the  most  torturing  horror 
and  disgust  of  that  great  sin,  rose  up  in  her  the  divinest  love  for 
the  sinner  ; she  felt — strange  paradox — that  she  had  never  loved 
her  mother  as  she  did  at  that  moment.  “ Oh,  that  it  had  been 
I who  had  done  it,  and  not  she  ! ” And  her  mother’s  sin  was  to 
her  her  own  sin,  her  mother’s  shame  her  shame,  till  all  sense 
of  her  mother’s  guilt  vanished  in  the  light  of  her  divine  love. 
“ Oh,  that  I could  take  her  up  tenderly,  tell  her  that  all  is 
forgiven  and  forgotten  by  man  and  God ! — serve  her  as  I have 
never  served  her  yet ! — nurse  her  to  sleep  on  my  bosom,  and 
then  go  forth  and  bear  her  punishment,  even  if  need  be  on  the 
gallows-tree  ! ” And  there  she  stood,  in  a silent  agony  of  tender 
pity,  drinking  her  portion  of  the  cup  of  Him  who  bore  the  sins 
of  all  the  world. 

Silently  she  stood ; and  silently  she  turned  to  go,  to  go  home 
and  pray  for  guidance  in  that  dark  labyrinth  of  confused  duties. 
Her  mother  heard  the  rustle ; looked  up  ; and  sprang  to  her  feet 
with  a scream,  dropping  gold  pieces  on  the  ground. 

Her  first  impulse  was  wild  terror.  She  was  discovered ; by 
whom,  she  knew  not.  She  clasped  her  evil  treasure  to  her 
bosom,  and  thrusting  Grace  against  the  rock,  fled  wildly  out. 

“ Mother  ! Mother  ! ” shrieked  Grace,  rushing  after  her.  The 
shawl  fell  from  her  shoulders.  Her  mother  looked  back,  and 
saw  the  white  figure. 

“ God’s  angel ! God’s  angel,  come  to  destroy  me  ! as  he  came 
to  Balaam  ! ” and  in  the  madness  of  her  guilty  fancy  she  saw  in 
Grace’s  hand  the  fiery  sword  which  was  to  smite  her. 

Another  step,  looking  backward  still,  and  she  had  tripped  over 
a stone.  She  fell,  and  striking  the  back  of  her  head  against  the 
rock,  lay  senseless. 

Tenderly  Grace  lifted  her  up  : went  for  water  to  a pool  near 
by ; bathed  her  face,  calling  on  her  by  every  term  of  endearment. 
Slowly  the  old  woman  recovered  her  consciousness,  but  showed 


TOO  LATE. 


463 


it  only  in  moans.  Her  head  was  cut  and  bleeding.  Grace  bound 
it  up,  and  then  taking  that  fatal  belt,  bound  it  next  to  her  own 
heart,  never  to  be  moved  from  thence  till  she  should  put  it  into 
the  hands  of  him  to  whom  it  belonged. 

And  then  she  lifted  up  her  mother. 

“Come  home,  darling  mother;”  and  she  tried  to  make  her 
stand  and  walk. 

The  old  woman  only  moaned,  and  waved  her  away  impatiently. 
Grace  put  her  on  her  feet ; but  she  fell  again.  The  lower  limbs 
seemed  all  but  paralysed. 

Slowly  that  sweet  saint  lifted  her,  and  laid  her  on  her  own 
back  ; and  slowly  she  bore  her  homeward,  with  aching  knees  and 
bleeding  feet ; while  before  her  eyes  hung  the  picture  of  Him 
who  bore  his  cross  up  Calvary,  till  a solemn  joy  and  pride  in 
that  sacred  burden  seemed  to  intertwine  itself  with  her  deep 
misery.  And  fainting  every  moment  with  pain  and  weakness,  she 
still  went  on,  as  if  by  supernatural  strength ; and  murmured — 

“ Thou  didst  bear  more  for  me,  and  shall  not  I bear  even  this 
for  Thee  * ” 

Surely,  if  blest  spirits  can  weep  and  smile  over  the  woes  and 
heroisms  of  us  mortal  men,  faces  brighter  than  the  stars  looked 
down  on  that  fair  girl  that  night,  and  in  loving  sympathy  called 
her,  too,  blest. 

At  last  it  was  over.  Undiscovered  she  reached  home,  laid 
her  mother  on  the  bed,  and  tended  her  till  morning:  but  long 
ere  morning  dawned  stupor  had  changed  into  delirium,  and 
Grace’s  ears  were  all  on  lire  with  words — which  those  who  have 
ever  heard  will  have  no  heart  to  write. 

And  now,  by  one  of  those  strange  vagaries,  in  which  epidemics 
so  often  indulge,  appeared  other  symptoms  ; and  by  day-dawn 
cholera  itself. 

Heale,  though  recovering,  was  still  too  weak  to  be  of  use  : 
but,  happily,  the  medical  man  sent  down  by  the  Eoard  of  Health 
was  still  in  the  town. 

Grace  sent  for  him ; but  he  shook  his  head  after  the  first  look. 
The  wretched  woman’s  ravings  at  once  explained  the  case,  and 
made  it,  in  his  eyes,  all  but  hopeless. 

The  sudden  shock  to  body  and  mind,  the  sudden  prostration 
of  strength,  had  brought  out  the  disease  which  she  had  dreaded 
so  intensely,  and  against  which  she  had  taken  so  many  pre- 
cautions, and  which  yet  lay,  all  the  while,  lurking  unfelt  in  her 
system. 

A hideous  eight-and-forty  hours  followed.  The  preachers 
and  class-leaders  came  to  pray  over  the  dying  woman : but  she 
screamed  to  Grace  to  send  them  away.  She  had  just  sense 
enough  left  to  dread  that  she  might  betray  her  own  shame. 


464 


TOO  LATE. 


Would  she  have  the  new  clergyman  then  ? No ; she  would  have 
no  one ; — no  one  could  help  her  ! Let  her  only  die  in  peace  ! 

And  Grace  closed  the  door  upon  all  hut  the  doctor,  who 
treated  the  wild  sufferer’s  wild  words  as  the  mere  fancies  of 
delirium;  and  then  Grace  watched  and  prayed,  till  she  found 
herself  alone  with  the  dead. 

She  wrote  a letter  to  Thurnall — 

“Sir, — I have  found  your  belt,  and  all  the  money,  I believe 
and  trust,  which  it  contained.  If  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  tell 
me  where  and  how  I shall  send  it  to  you,  you  will  take  a heavy 
burden  off*  the  mind  of 

“ Your  obedient  humble  Servant, 
who  trusts  that  you  will  forgive  her  having  been  unable  to  fulfil 
her  promise.” 

She  addressed  the  letter  to  Whitbury ; for  thither  Tom  had 
ordered  his  letters  to  be  sent ; but  she  received  no  answer. 

The  day  after  Mrs.  Harvey  was  buried,  the  sale  of  all  her 
effects  was  announced  in  Aberalva. 

Grace  received  the  proceeds,  went  round  to  all  the  creditors, 
and  paid  them  all  which  was  .due.  She  had  a few  pounds  left. 
What  to  do  with  that  she  knew  full  well. 

She  showed  no  sign  of  sorrow  : but  she  spoke  rarely  to  any 
one.  A dead  dull  weight  seemed  to  hang  over  her.  To  preachers, 
class-leaders,  gossips,  who  upbraided  her  for  not  letting  them 
see  her  mother,  she  replied  by  silence.  People  thought  her 
becoming  idiotic. 

The  day  after  the  last  creditor  was  paid  she  packed  up  her 
little  box : hired  a cart  to  take  her  to  the  nearest  coach ; and . 
vanished  from  Aberalva,  without  bidding  farewell  to  a human, 
being,  even  to  her  school-children. 

^ ^ ^ 

Vavasour  had  been  buried  more  than  a week.  Mark  and  Maiy 
were  sitting  in  the  dining-room,  Mark  at  his  port  and  Mary  at 
her  work,  when  the  footboy  entered. 

“ Sir,  there’s  a young  woman  wants  to  speak  with  you.” 

“ Show  her  in,  if  she  looks  respectable,”  said  Mark,  who  had 
slippers  on,  and  his  feet  on  the  fender,  and  was,  therefore,  loth, 
to  move. 

“Oh,  quite  respectable,  Sir,  as  ever  I see;”  and  the  lad 
ushered  in  a figure,  dressed  and  veiled  in  deep  black. 

“ Well,  Ma’am,  sit  down,  pray ; and  what  can  I do  for  you  ? ” 

“Can  you  tell  me,  Sir,”  answered  a voice  of  extraordinary 
sweetness  and  gentleness,  very  firm  and  composed  withal,  “if 
Mr.  Thomas  Thurnall  is  in  Whitbury  ] ” 


TOO  LATE. 


465 

“ Thurnall  ? He  has  sailed  for  the  East  a week  ago.  May 
I ask  your  business  with  him  ? Can  I help  you  in  it  ? ” 

The  black  damsel  paused  so  long,  that  both  Mary  and  her 
father  felt  uneasy,  and  a cloud  passed  over  Mark’s  brow. 

“ Can  the  boy  have  been  playing  tricks'?”  said  he  to  himself. 

“ Then,  Sir,  as  I hear  that  you  have  influence,  can  you  get 
me  a situation  as  one  of  the  nurses  who  are  going  out  thither, 
so  I hear  ? ” 

66  Get  you  a situation  ? Yes,  of  course,  if  you  are  competent.” 

“Thank  you,  Sir.  Perhaps,  if  you  could  be  so  very  kind  as 
to  tell  me  to  whom  lam  to  apply  in  Town;  for  I shall  go  thither 
to-night.” 

“ My  goodness  ! ” cried  Mark.  “ Old  Mark  don’t  do  things 
in  this  off-hand,  cold-blooded  way.  Let  us  know  who  you  are, 
my  dear,  and  about  Mr.  Thurnall.  Have  you  anything  against 
him?” 

She  was  silent. 

“ Mary,  just  step  into  the  next  room.” 

“ If  you  please,  Sir,”  said  the  same  gentle  voice,  “I  had  sooner 
that  the  lady  should  stay.  I have  nothing  against  Mr.  Thurnall, 
God  knows.  He  has  rather  something  against  me.” 

Another  pause. 

Mary  rose,  and  went  up  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 

“ Do  tell  us  who  you  are,  and  if  we  can  do  anything  for  you.” 

And  she  looked  winningly  up  into  her  face. 

The  stranger  drew  a long  breath  and  lifted  her  veil.  Mary 
and  Mark  both  started  at  the  beauty  of  the  countenance  which 
she  revealed — but  in  a different  way.  Mark  gave  a grunt  of 
approbation  : Mary  turned  pale  as  death. 

“ I suppose  that  it  is  but  right  and  reasonable  that  I should 
tell  you,  at  least  give  proof  of  my  being  an  honest  person.  Eor 
my  capabilities  as  a nurse — I believe  you  know  Mrs.  Vavasour  ? 
I heard  that  she  has  been  staying  here.” 

“ Of  course.  Do  you  know  her  ? ” 

A sad  smile  passed  over  her  face. 

“ Yes,  well  enough,  at  least  for  her  to  speak  for  me.  I should 
have  asked  her  or  Miss  St.  Just  to  help  me  to  a nurse’s  place : 
but  I did  not  like  to  trouble  them  in  their  distress.  How  is 
the  poor  lady  now,  Sir  h ” 

“ I know  who  she  is  ! ” cried  Mary,  by  a sudden  inspiration. 
“ Is  not  your  name  Harvey  ? Are  you  not  the  schoolmistress 
who  saved  Mr.  Thurnall’s  life  ? who  behaved  so  nobly  in  the 
cholera  ? Yes  ! I knew  you  were  ! Come  and  sit  down,  and 
tell  me  all ! I have  so  longed  to  know  you  ! Dear  creature,  I 
have  felt  as  if  you  were  my  own  sister.  He — Mr.  Thurnall — 
wrote  often  about  all  your  heroism.” 


466 


TOO  LATE. 


Grace  seemed  to  choke  down  somewhat : and  then  answered 
steadfastly — 

“ I did  not  come  here,  my  dear  lady,  to  hear  such  kind  words,, 
hut  to  do  an  errand  to  Mr.  Thurnall.  You  have  heard,  perhaps, 
that  when  he  was  wrecked  last  spring,  he  lost  some  money. 
Yes  ? Then,  it  was  stolen.  Stolen  ! ” she  repeated  with  a great 
gasp  : “ never  mind  by  whom.  Not  by  me.” 

“ You  need  not  tell  us  that,  my  dear/’  interrupted  Mark. 

“ God  kept  it.  And  I have  it ; here  ! ” and  she  pressed  her 
hands  tight  over  her  bosom.  “ And  here  I must  keep  it  till  I 
give  it  into  his  hands,  if  I follow  him  round  the  world  ! ” And 
as  she  spoke  her  eyes  shone  in  the  lamplight,  with  an  unearthly 
brilliance  which  made  Mary  shudder. 

Mark  Armsworth  poured  a libation  to  the  goddess  of  Puzzle- 
dom,  in  the  shape  of  a glass  of  port,  which  first  choked  him,  and 
then  descended  over  his  clean  shirt  front.  But  after  he  had 
coughed  himself  black  in  the  face,  he  began  : — ■ 

4 ‘My  good  girl,  if  you  are  Grace  Harvey,  you’re  welcome  to 
my  roof,  and  an  honour  to  it,  say  I : but  as  for  taking  all  that 
money  with  you  across  the  seas,  and  such  a pretty  helpless 
young  thing  as  you  are,  God  help  you,  it  mustn’t  be,  and  shan’t 
be,  and  that’s  flat.” 

“ But  I must  go  to  him  ! ” said  she,  in  so  naive  half-wild  a 
fashion,  that  Mary,  comprehending  all,  looked  imploringly  at 
her  father,  and  putting  her  arm  round  Grace,  forced  her  into  a 
seat. 

“I  must  go,  Sir,  and  tell  him — tell  him  myself.  No  one 
knows  what  I know  about  it.” 

Mark  shook  his  head. 

“ Could  I not  write  to  him  ? He  knows  me  as  wrell  as  he 
knows  his  own  father.” 

Grace  shook  her  head,  and  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  heart, 
where  Tom’s  belt  lay. 

“ Do  you  think,  Madam,  that  after  having  had  the  dream  of 
this  belt,  the  shape  of  this  belt,  and  of  the  money  which  is  in 
it,  branded  into  my  brain  for  months — years  it  seems  like — 
by  God’s  fire  of  shame  and  suspicion; — and  seen  him  poor, 
miserable,  fretful,  unbelieving,  for  the  want  of  it — 0 God  ! I 
can’t  tell  even  your  sweet  face  all. — Do  you  think  that  now  I 
have  it  it  my  hands,  I can  part  with  it,  or  rest,  till  it  is  in  his  ! 
No,  not  though  I walked  barefoot  after  him  to  the  ends  of  the. 
earth.” 

“ Let  his  father  have  the  money,  then,  and  do  you  take  him 
the  belt  as  a token,  if  you  must — ” 

“ That’s  it,  Mary  ! ” shouted  Mark  Armsworth,  “ you  always 
come  in  with  the  right  hint,,  girl ! ” and  the  two,,  combining. 


TOO  LATE. 


467 


their  forces,  at  last  talked  poor  Grace  over.  But  upon  going  out 
herself  she  was  bent.  To  ask  his  forgiveness  in  her  mother’s 
name,  was  her  one  fixed  idea.  He  might  die,  and  not  know  all, 
not  have  forgiven  all,  and  go  she  must. 

“ But  it  is  a thousand  to  one  against  your  seeing  him.  We, 
even,  don’t  know  exactly  where  he  is  gone.” 

Grace  shuddered  a moment ; and  then  recovered  her  calmness. 

“ I did  not  expect  this  : but  be  it  so.  I shall  meet  him  if 
God  wills  ; and  if  not,  I can  still  work — work.” 

“ I think,  Mary,  you’d  better  take  the  young  woman  up-stairs, 
and  make  her  sleep  here  to-night,”  said  Mark,  glad  of  an  excuse 
to  get  rid  of  them  ; which,  when  he  had  done,  he  pulled  his 
chair  round  in  front  of  the  fire,  put  a foot  on  each  hob,  and 
began  rubbing  his  eyes  vigorously. 

“ Dear  me  ! Dear  me  ! What  a lot  of  good  people  there  are 
in  this  old  world,  to  be  sure  ! Ten  times  better  than  me,  at 
least — make  one  ashamed  of  oneself  : — and  if  one  isn’t  even 
good  enough  for  this  world,  how’s  one  to  be  good  enough  for 
heaven  ? ” 

And  Mary  carried  Grace  up-stairs,  and  into  her  own  bed-room. 
“A  bed  should  be  made  up  there  for  her.  It  would  do  her 
good  just  to  have  anything  so  pretty  sleeping  in  the  same  room. 
And  then  she  got  Grace  supper,  and  tried  to  make  her  talk  : but 
she  was  distrait,  reserved;  for  a new  and  sudden  dread  had 
seized  her,  at  the  sight  of  that  fine  house,  fine  plate,  fine  friends. 
These  were  his  acquaintances,  then  : no  wonder  that  he  would 
not  look  on  such  as  her.  And  as  she  cast  her  eye  round  the 
really  luxurious  chamber,  and  (after  falteringly  asking  Mary 
whether  she  had  any  brothers  and  sisters)  guessed  that  she  must 
be  the  heiress  of  all  that  wealth,  she  settled  in  her  heart  that 
Tom  was  to  marry  Mary ; and  the  intimate  tone  in  which  Mary 
spoke  of  him  to  her,  and  her  innumerable  inquiries  about  him, 
made  her  more  certain  that  it  was  a settled  thing.  Handsome 
she  was  not,  certainly  ; but  so  sweet  and  good  ; and  that  her 
own  beauty  (if  she  was  aware  that  she  possessed  any)  could  have 
any  weight  with  Tom,  she  would  have  considered  as  an  insult  to 
his  sense  ; so  she  made  up  her  mind  slowly,  but  steadily,  that 
thus  it  was  to  be ; and  every  fresh  proof  of  Mary’s  sweetness 
and  goodness  was  a fresh  pang  to  her,  for  it  showed  the  more 
how  probable  it  was  that  Tom  loved  her. 

Therefore  she  answered  all  Mary’s  questions  carefully  and 
honestly,  as  to  a person  who  had  a right  to  ask  ; and  at  last  went 
to  her  bed,  and,  worn  out  in  body  and  mind,  was  asleep  in  a 
moment.  She  had  not  remarked  the  sigh  which  escaped  Mary, 
as  she  glanced  at  that  beautiful  head,  and  the  long  black  tresses 
which  streamed  down  for  a moment  over  the  white  shoulders  ere 

h h 2 


468 


TOO  LATE. 


they  were  knotted  back  for  the  night,  and  then  at  her  own  poor 
countenance  in  the  glass  opposite. 

****** 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  Grace  woke,  she  knew  not 
how,  and  looking  up,  saw  a light  in  the  room,  and  Mary  sitting 
still  over  a book,  her  head  resting  on  her  hands.  She  lay  quiet 
and  thought  she  heard  a sob.  She  was  sure  she  heard  tears 
drop  on  the  paper.  She  stirred,  and  Mary  was  at  her  side  in  a 
moment. 

“Did  you  want  anything  V9 

“ Only  to — to  remind  you,  Ma’am,  it  is  not  wise  to  sit  up  so 
late.” 

“ Only  that  V9  said  Mary,  laughing.  “ I do  that  every  night, 
alone  with  God ; and  I do  not  think  He  will  be  the  farther  off 
for  your  being  here  ! ” 

“ One  thing  I had  to  ask,”  said  Grace.  “ It  would  lessen 
my  labour  so,  if  you  could  give  me  any  hint  of  where  he 
might  be.” 

“We  know,  as  we  told  you,  as  little  as  you.  His  letters  are 
to  be  sent  to  Constantinople.  Some  from  Aberalva  are  gone 
thither  already.” 

“ And  mine  among  them  !”  thought  Grace.  “ It  is  God’s  will ! 
<.  . . Madam,  if  it  would  not  seem  forward  on  my  part — if  you 
could  tell  him  the  truth,  and  what  I have  for  him,  and  where  I 
am,  in  case  he  might  wish — wish  to  see  me — when  you  were 
writing.” 

“ Of  course  I will,  or  my  father  will,”  said  Mary,  who  did  not 
like  to  confess  either  to  herself  or  to  Grace,  that  it  was  very 
improbable  that  she  would  ever  write  again  to  Tom  Thurnall. 

And  so  the  two  sweet  maidens,  so  near  that  moment  to  an 
explanation,  which  might  have  cleared  up  all,  went  on  each  in 
her  ignorance  ; for  so  it  was  to  be. 

The  next  morning  Grace  came  down  to  breakfast,  modest, 
cheerful,  charming.  Mark  made  her  breakfast  with  them  ; gave 
her  endless  letters  of  recommendation;  wanted  to  take  her  to 
see  old  Doctor  Thurnall,  which  she  declined,  and  then  sent  her 
to  the  station  in  his  own  carriage,  paid  her  fare  first-class  to  Town, 
and  somehow  or  other  contrived,  with  Mary’s  help,  that  she 
should  find  in  her  bag  two  ten-pound  notes,  which  she  had  never 
seen  before.  After  which  he  went  out  to  his  counting-house, 
only  remarking  to  Mary — 

“Very  extraordinary  young  woman,  and  very  handsome,  too. 
Will  make  some  man  a jewel  of  a wife,  if  she  don’t  go  mad,  or 
die  of  the  hospital  fever.” 

To  which  Mary  fully  assented.  Little  she  guessed,  and  little 


A RECENT  EXPL03ION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER.  46$ 

did  her  father,  that  it  was  for  Grace’s  sake  that  Tom  had  refused 
her  hand. 

A few  days  more,  and  Grace  Harvey  also  had  gone  Eastward 
Ho. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 

It  is,  perhaps,  a pity  for  the  human  race  in  general,  that  some 
enterprising  company  cannot  buy  up  the  Moselle  (not  the  wine, 
but  the  river),  cut  it  into  five-mile  lengths,  and  distribute  them 
over  Europe,  wherever  there  is  a demand  for  lovely  scenery.  Eor 
lovely  is  its  proper  epithet ; it  is  not  grand,  not  exciting — so 
much  the  better ; it  is  scenery  to  live  and  die  in ; scenery  to 
settle  in,  and  study  a single  landscape,  till  you  know  every  rock* 
and  walnut-tree,  and  vine-leaf  by  heart : not  merely  to  run 
through  in  one  hasty  steam-trip,  as  you  now  do,  in  a long  burn- 
ing day,  which  makes  you  not  “ drunk  ” — but  weary — “ with 
excess  of  beauty.”  Besides,  there  are  two  or  three  points  so 
superior  to  the  rest,  that  having  seen  them,  one  cares  to  see 
nothing  more.  That  paradise  of  emerald,  purple,  and  azure* 
which  opens  behind  Treis ; and  that  strange  heap  of  old-world 
houses  at  Berncastle,  which  have  scrambled  up  to  the  top  of  a 
rock  to  stare  at  the  steamer,  and  have  never  been  able  to  get 
down  again — between  them,  and  after  them,  one  feels  like  a 
child  who,  after  a great  mouthful  of  pine-apple  jam,  is  con- 
demned to  have  poured  down  its  throat  an  everlasting  stream 
of  treacle. 

So  thought  Stangrave  on  board  the  steamer,  as  he  smoked  his 
way  up  the  shallows,  and  wondered  which  turn  of  the  river 
would  bring  him  to  his  destination.  When  would  it  all  be  over  ? 
And  he  never  leaped  on  shore  more  joyfully  than  he  did  at  Alf 
that  afternoon,  to  jump  into  a carriage,  and  trundle  up  the  gorge 
of  the  Issbach  some  six  lonely  weary  miles,  till  he  turned  at  last 
into  the  wooded  caldron  of  the  Romer-kessel,  and  saw  the  little 
chapel  crowning  the  central  knoll,  with  the  white  higli-roofed 
houses  of  Bertrich  nestling  at  its  foot. 

He  drives  up  to  the  handsome  old  Kurhaus,  nestling  close 
beneath  heather-clad  rocks,  upon  its  lawn  shaded  with  huge 
horse-chestnuts,  and  set  round  with  dahlias,  and  geraniums,  and 
delicate  tinted  German  stocks,  which  fill  the  air  with  fragrance  ; 
a place  made  only  for  y >ung  lovers : — certianly  not  for  those 
black-petticoated  worthies,  each  with  that  sham  of  a sham,  the 


470  A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 

modern  tonsure,  pared  down  to  a poor  florin’s  breadth  among 
their  bushy,  well-oiled  curls,  who  sit  at  little  tables,  passing  the 
lazy  day  “ a muguetter  les  bourgeoises  ” of  Sarrebruck  and  Treves, 
and  sipping  the  fragrant  Josephshofer — perhaps  at  the  good 
bourgeois’  expense. 

Past  them  Stangrave  slips  angrily ; for  that  “ development  of 
humanity  ” can  find  no  favour  in  his  eyes  ; being  not  human  at 
all,  but  professedly  superhuman,  and  therefore,  practically,  some- 
times inhuman.  He  hurries  into  the  public  room  ; seizes  on  the 
visitor’s  book. 

The  names  are  there,  in  their  own  handwriting : but  where 
are  they  1 

Waiters  are  seized  and  questioned.  The  English  ladies  came 
back  last  night,  and  are  gone  this  afternoon. 

“ Where  are  they  gone  ? ” 

Hobody  recollects  : not  even  the  man  from  whom  they  hired 
the  carriage.  But  they  are  not  gone  far.  Their  servants  and 
their  luggage  are  still  here.  Perhaps  the  Herr  Ober-Badmeister, 
Lieutenant  D * * * will  know.  “ Oh,  it  will  not  trouble  him. 
An  English  gentleman  1 Der  Herr  Lieutenant  will  be  only  too 
happy;”  and  in  ten  minutes  der  Herr  Lieutenant  appears,  really 
only  too  happy ; and  Stangrave  finds  himself  at  once  in  the 
company  of  a soldier  and  a gentleman.  Had  their  acquaintance 
been  a longer  one,  he  would  have  recognised  likewise  the  man 
of  taste  and  of  piety. 

“ I can  well  appreciate,  Sir,”  says  he,  in  return  to  Stangrave’s 
anxious  inquiries,  “ your  impatience  to  rejoin  your  lovely  country- 
women, who  have  been  for  the  last  three  weeks  the  wonder  and 
admiration  of  our  little  paradise ; and  whose  four  days’  absence 
was  regarded,  believe  me,  as  a public  calamity.” 

“ I can  well  believe  it;  but  they  are  not  countrywomen  of 
mine.  The  one  lady  is  an  Englishwoman  ; the  other — I believe 
— an  Italian.” 

“ And  der  Herr  h ” 

“An  American.” 

“ Ah  ! A still  greater  pleasure,  Sir.  I trust  that  you  will 
carry  back  across  the  Atlantic  a good  report  of  a spot  all  but 
unknown,  I fear,  to  your  compatriots.  You  will  meet  one,  I 
think,  on  the  return  of  the  ladies.” 

“ A compatriot  ” 

“ Yes.  A gentleman  who  arrived  here  this  morning,  and 
who  seemed,  from  his  conversation  with  them,  to  belong  to  your 
noble  fatherland.  He  wrent  out  driving  with  them  this  after- 
noon, whither  I unfortunately  know  not.  Ah ! good  Saint 
Nicholas ! — For  though  I am  a Lutheran,  I must  invoke  him 
now — Look  out  yonder  ! ” 


A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER.  471 

'Stangrave  looked,  and  joined  in  the  general  laugh  of  lieutenant, 
waiters,  priests  and  bourgeoises. 

For  under  the  chestnuts  strutted,  like  him  in  Struwelpeter,  as 
though  he  were  a very  king  of  Ashantee,  Sabinas  black  boy, 
who  had  taken  to  himself  a scarlet  umbrella,  and  a great  cigar  ; 
while  after  him  came,  also  like  them  in  Struwelpeter,  Caspar, 
bretzel  in  hand,  and  Ludwig  with  his  hoop,  and  all  the  naughty 
boys  of  Bertrich  town,  hooting  and  singing  in  chorus,  after  the 
fashion  of  German  children. 

The  resemblance  to  the  well-known  scene  in  the  German 
child’s  book  was  perfect,  and  as  the  children  shouted, — 

“ Ein  kohlpeclirabenschwarzer  Mohr, 

Die  Sonne  schien  ihm  ins  gehirn, 

Da  nalim  er  seinen  Sonnensckirm  ” — 

more  than  one  grown  person  joined  therein. 

Stangrave  longed  to  catch  hold  of  the  boy,  and  extract  from 
him  all  news ; but  the  blackamoor  was  not  quite  in  respectable 
company  enough  at  that  moment ; and  Stangrave  had  to  wait 
till  he  strutted  proudly  up  to  the  door,  and  entered  the  hall  with, 
a bland  smile,  evidently  having  taken  the  hooting  as  a homage 
to  his  personal  appearance. 

“ Ah  ? Mas’  Stangrave  ? glad  see  you,  Sir  ! Quite  a party  of 
us,  now,  hnong  dese  ’barian  heathen  foreigners.  Mas’  Thurnall 
lie  come  dis  mornnT ; gone  up  pickin’  bush  wid  de  ladies.  Fie  ! 
he  ! Not  seen  him  dis  tree  year  afore.” 

“ Thurnall ! ” Stangrave’s  heart  sunk  within  him.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  order  a carriage,  and  return  whence  he  came ; 
but  it  would  look  so  odd,  and,  moreover,  be  so  foolish,  that  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  stay  and  face  the  worst.  So  he  swallowed 
a hasty  dinner,  and  then  wandered  up  the  narrow  valley,  with 
all  his  suspicions  of  Thurnall  and  Marie  seething  more  fiercely 
than  ever  in  his  heart. 

Some  half- mile  up,  a path  led  out  of  the  main  road  to  a 
wooden  bridge  across  the  stream.  He  followed  it,  careless 
whither  he  went  ; and  in  five  minutes  found  himself  in  the 
quaintest  little  woodland  cavern  he  ever  had  seen. 

It  was  simply  a great  block  of  black  lava,  crowned  with 
brushwood,  and  supported  on  walls  and  pillars  of  Dutch  cheeses, 
or  what  should  have  been  Dutch  cheeses  by  all  laws  of  shape 
and  colour,  had  not  his  fingers  proved  to  them  that  they  were 
stone.  How  they  got  there,  and  what  they  were,  puzzled  him  ; 
for  he  was  no  geologist ; and  finding  a bench  inside,  he  sat 
down  and  speculated  thereon. 

There  was  more  than  one  doorway  to  the  “ Cheese  Cellar.” 
Ft  stood  beneath  a jutting  knoll,  and  the  path  ran  right  through; 


472 


A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 


so  that,  as  he  sat,  he  could  see  up  a narrow  gorge  to  his  left, 
roofed  in  with  trees  ; and  down  into  the  main  valley  on  his 
right,  where  the  Issbach  glittered  clear  and  smooth  beneath  red- 
berried  mountain-ash  and  yellow  leaves. 

There  he  sat,  and  tried  to  forget  Marie  in  the  tinkling  of  the 
streams,  and  the  sighing  of  the  autumn  leaves,  and  the  cooing 
of  the  sleepy  doves  ; while  the  ice-bird,  as  the  Germans  call 
the  water-ouzel,  sat  on  a rock  in  the  river  below,  and  warbled 
his  low  sweet  song,  and  then  flitted  up  the  grassy  reach  to  perch 
and  sing  again  on  the  next  rock  above. 

And,  whether  it  was  that  he  did  forget  Marie  awhile ; or 
whether  he  were  tired,  as  he  well  might  have  been ; or  whether 
he  had  too  rapidly  consumed  his  bottle  of  red  Walporzheimer, 
forgetful  that  it  alone  of  German  wines  combines  the  delicacy 
of  the  Ehine  sun  with  the  potency  of  its  Burgundian  vinestock, 
transplanted  to  the  Ahr  by  Charlemagne  ; — whether  it  were  any 
of  these  causes,  or  whether  it  were  not,  Stangrave  fell  fast  asleep 
in  the  ^Kaise-kellar,  and  slept  till  it  was  dark,  at  the  risk  of 
catching  a great  cold. 

How  long  he  slept,  he  knew  not : but  what  wakened  him 
he  knew  full  well.  Yoices  of  people  approaching;  and  voices 
which  he  recognised  in  a moment. 

Sabina  ? Yes  ; and  Marie  too,  laughing  merrily  ; and  among 
their  shriller  tones  the  voice  of  Thurnall.  He  had  not  heard  it 
for  years ; but,  considering  the  circumstances  under  which  he 
had  last  heard  it,  there  was  no  fear  of  his  forgetting  it  again. 

They  came  down  the  side-glen  ; and  before  he  could  rise,  they 
had  turned  the  sharp  corner  of  the  rock,  and  were  in  the  Kaise- 
kellar,  close  to  him,  almost  touching  him.  He  felt  the  awkward- 
ness of  his  position.  To  keep  still  was,  perhaps,  to  overhear, 
and  that  too  much.  To  discover  himself  was  to  produce  a 
scene  ; and  he  could  not  trust  his  temper  that  the  scene  would 
not  be  an  ugly  one,  and  such  as  women  must  not  witness. 

He  was  relieved  to  find  that  they  did  not  stop.  They  were 
laughing  about  the  gloom ; about  being  out  so  late. 

“ How  jealous  some  one  whom  I know  would  be,”  said  Sabina, 
“ if  he  found  you  and  Tom  together  in  this  darksome  den  ! ” 

“ I don’t  care,”  said  Tom ; “ I have  made  up  my  mind  to 
shoot  him  out  of  hand,  and  marry  Marie  myself.  Sha’n’t  I now, 
my  ” — and  they  passed  on ; and  down  to  their  carriage,  which 
had  been  waiting  for  them  in  the  road  below. 

What  Marie’s  answer  was,  or  by  what  name  Thurnall  was 
about  to  address  her,  Stangrave  did  not  hear  : but  he  had  heard 
quite  enough. 

He  rose  quietly  after  a while,  and  followed  them. 

He  was  a dupe,  an  ass  ! The  dupe  of  those  bad  women,  and 


A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 


473 


of  liis  ancient  enemy  ! It  was  maddening ! Yet,  how  could 
Sabina  be  in  fault  ? She  had  not  known  Marie  till  he  himself 
had  introduced  her ; and  he  could  not  believe  her  capable  of 
such  baseness.  The  crime  must  lie  between  the  other  two. 
Yet— 

However  that  might  be  mattered  little  to  him  now.  He 
would  return,  order  his  carriage  once  more,  and  depart,  shaking 
off  the  dust  of  his  feet  against  them ! “ Pah ! There  were 

other  women  in  the  world ; and  women,  too,  who  would  not 
demand  of  him  to  become  a hero.” 

He  reached  the  Kurhaus,  and  went  in ; but  not  into  the 
public  room,  for  fear  of  meeting  people  whom  he  had  no  heart 
to  face. 

He  was  in  the  passage,  in  the  act  of  settling  his  account 
with  the  waiter,  when  Thurnall  came  hastily  out,  and  ran 
against  him. 

Stangrave  stood  by  the  passage  lamp,  so  that  he  saw  Tom’s 
face  at  once. 

Tom  drew  back  ; begged  a thousand  pardons ; and  saw  Stan- 
grave’s  face  in  turn. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a few  seconds.  Stangrave 
longed  to  say,  “ You  intend  to  shoot  me  h Then  try  at  once  ; ” 
but  he  was  ashamed,  of  course,  to  make  use  of  words  which  he 
had  so  accidentally  overheard. 

Tom  looked  carefully  at  Stangrave,  to  divine  his  temper  from 
his  countenance.  It  was  quite  angry  enough  to  give  Tom  excuse 
for  saying  to  himself — 

“ The  fellow  is  mad  at  being  caught  at  last.  Very  well.” 

“ I think,  Sir,”  said  he,  quietly  enough,  “ that  you  and  I had 
better  walk  outside  for  a few  minutes.  Allow  me  to  retract  the 
apology  I just  made,  till  we  have  had  some  very  explicit  con- 
versation on  other  matters.” 

“ Curse  his  impudence  ! ” thought  Stangrave.  “ Does  he 
actually  mean  to  bully  me  into  marrying  her  h ” and  he  replied 
haughtily  enough, — 

“ I am  aware  of  no  matters  on  which  I am  inclined  to  be 
explicit  with  Mr.  Thurnall,  or  on  which  Mr.  Thurnall  has  a right 
to  be  explicit  with  me.” 

“ I am,  then,”  quoth  Tom,  his  suspicion  increasing  in  turn. 
“ Do  you  wish,  Sir,  to  have  a scene  before  this  waiter  and  the 
whole  house,  or  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  walk  outside  with 
me  ? ” 

“ I must  decline,  Sir ; not  being  in  the  habit  of  holding  in- 
tercourse with  an  actress’s  bully.” 

Tom  did  not  knock  him  down : but  replied  smilingly  enough — - 

“ I am  far  too  much  in  earnest  in  this  matter,  Sir,  to  be 


474 


A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 


stopped  by  any  coarse  expressions.  Waiter,  you  may  go.  Now, 
will  you  figlit  me  to-morrow  morning,  or  will  you  not  % ” 

“I  may  fight  a gentleman  : hut  not  you.” 

“Well,  I shall  not  call  you  a coward,  because  I know  that 
you  are  none  ; and  I shall  not  make  a row  here,  for  a gentle- 
man’s reasons,  which  you,  calling  yourself  a gentleman,  seem 
to  have  forgotten.  But  this  I will  do ; I will  follow  you  till 
you  do  fight  me,  if  I have  to  throw  up  my  oath  prospects  in  life 
for  it.  I will  proclaim  you,  wherever  we  meet,  for  what  you 
are — a mean  and  base  intriguer  ; I will  insult  you  in  Kursaals, 
and  cane  you  on  public  places ; I will  be  Frankenstein’s  man  to 
you  day  and  night,  till  I have  avenged  the  wrongs  of  this  poor 
girl,  the  dust  of  whose  feet  you  are  not  worthy  to  kiss  off.” 
Stangrave  was  surprised  at  his  tone.  It  was  certainly  not 
that  of  a conscious  villain  : but  he  only  replied  sneeringly, — 

“ And  pray  what  may  give  Mr.  Thurnall  the  right  to  consider 
himself  the  destined  avenger  of  this  frail  beauty’s  wrongs  ? ” 

“ I will  tell  you  that  after  we  have  fought ; and  somewhat 
more.  Meanwhile,  that  expression,  ‘ frail  beauty,’  is  a fresh 
offence,  for  which  I should  certainly  cane  you,  if  she  were  not 
in  the  house.” 

“ Well,”  drawled  Stangrave,  feigning  an  ostentatious  yawn, 
“ I believe  the  wise  method  of  ridding  oneself  of  impertinents 
is  to  grant  their  requests.  Have  you  pistols  1 I have  none.” 

“ I have  both  duellers  and  revolvers  at  your  service.” 

“ Ah'?  I think  we’ll  try  the  revolvers  then,”  said  Stangrave, 
savage  from  despair,  and  disbelief  in  all  human  goodness. 
“ After  what  has  passed,  five  or  six  shots  apiece  will  be  hardly 
outre” 

“ Hardly,  I think,”  said  Tom.  “Will  you  name  your  second?” 
“I  know  no  one.  I have  not  been  here  two  hours;  but  I 
suppose  they  do  not  matter  much.” 

“ Humph  ! it  is  as  well  to  have  witnesses  in  case  of  accident. 
There  are  a couple  of  roystering  Burschen  in  the  public  room, 
who,  I think  would  enjoy  the  office.  Both  have  scars  on  their 
faces,  so  they  will  be  an  fait  at  the  thing.  Shall  I have  the 
honour  of  sending  one  of  them  to  you  ? ” 

“ As  you  will,  Sir ; my  number  is  34.”  And  the  two  fools 
turned  on  their  respective  heels,  and  walked  off. 

* * * # * * 

At  sunrise  next  morning  Tom  and  his  second  are  standing  on 
the  Falkenliolie,  at  the  edge  of  the  vast  circular  pit,  blasted  out 
by  some  explosion  which  has  torn  the  slate  into  mere  dust  and 
.shivers,  now  covered  with  a thin  coat  of  turf. 

“ Schone  aussicht ! ” says  the  Bursch,  waving  his  hand  round, 


A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  A\<  ANCIENT  CRATER.  475 

in  a tone  which,  is  benevolently  meant  to  withdraw  Tom’s  mind 
from  painful  considerations. 

“ Very  pretty  prospect  indeed.  You’re  sure  you  understand 
that  revolver  thoroughly  ] ” 

The  Bursch  mutters  to  himself  something  about  English  non- 
chalance, and  assures  Thurnall  that  he  is  competently  acquainted 
with  the  weapon ; as  indeed  he  ought  to  be ; for  having  never 
seen  one  before,  he- -has  been  talking  and  thinking  of  nothing 
else  since  they  left  Bertrich. 

And  why  does  not  Tom  care  to  look  at  the  prospect  ? Cer- 
tainly not  because  he  is  afraid.  He  slept  as  soundly  as  ever  last 
night ; and  knows  not  what  fear  means.  But  somehow,  the 
glorious  view  reminds  him  of  another  glorious  view,  which  he 
saw  last  summer  walking  by  Grace  Harvey’s  side  from  Tolchard’s 
farm.  And  that  subject  he  will  sternly  put  away.  He  is  not 
sure  but  what  it  might  unman  even  him. 

The  likeness  certainly  exists  ; for  the  rock,  being  the  same  in 
both  places,  has  taken  the  same  general  form ; and  the  wanderer 
in  Rhine-Prussia  and  Nassau  might  often  fancy  himself  in  Devon 
or  Cornwall.  True,  here  there  is  no  sea : and  there  no  Mosel- 
kopf  raises  its  huge  crater-cone  far  above  the  uplands,  all  golden 
in  the  level  sun.  But  that  brown  Taunus  far  away,  or  that 
brown  Hundsruck  opposite,  with  its  deep-wooded  gorges  barred 
with  level  gleams  of  light  across  black  gulfs  of  shade,  might 
well  be  Dartmoor,  or  Carcarrow  moor  itself,  high  over  Aberalva 
town,  which  he  will  see  no  more.  True,  in  Cornwall  there  would 
be  no  slag-cliffs  of  the  Ealkenley  beneath  his  feet,  as  black  and 
blasted  at  this  day  as  when  yon  orchard  meadow  was  the  mouth 
of  hell,  and  the  south-west  wind  dashed  the  great  flame  against 
the  cinder  cliff  behind,  and  forged  it  into  walls  of  time-defying 
glass.  But  that  might  well  be  Alva  stream,  that  Issbach  in  its 
green  gulf  far  below,  winding  along  toward  the  green  gulf  of 
the  Moselle — he  will  look  at  it  no  more,  lest  he  see  Grace  herself 
come  to  him  across  the  down,  to  chide  him,  with  sacred  horror, 
for  the  dark  deed  which  he  has  come  to  do. 

And  yet  he  does  not  wish  to  kill  Stangrave.  He  would  like 
to  “ wing  him.”  He  must  punish  him  for  his  conduct  to  Marie; 
punish  him  for  last  night’s  insult.  It  is  a necessity,  but  a dis- 
agreeable one  ; he  would  be  sorry  to  go  to  the  war  with  that 
man’s  blood  upon  his  hand.  He  is  sorry  that  he  is  out  of  prac- 
tice. 

“ A year  ago  I could  have  counted  on  hitting  him  where  I 
liked.  I trust  I shall  not  blunder  against  his  vitals  now  How- 
ever, if  I do,  he  has  himself  to  blame  !” 

The  thought  that  Stangrave  may  kill  him  never  crosses  his 
mind.  Of  course,  out  of  six  shots,  fired  at  all  distances  from 


476  A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 

forty  paces  to  fifteen,  one  may  hit  him : "but  as  for  being 
killed  ! . . . 

Tom’s  heart  is  hardened ; melted  again  and  again  this  summer 
for  a moment,  only  to  freeze  again.  He  all  hut  believes  that  he 
hears  a charmed  life.  All  the  miraculous  escapes  of  his  past 
years,  instead  of  making  him  believe  in  a living,  guiding,  pro- 
tecting Father,  have  become  to  that  proud  hard  heart  the  excuse 
for  a deliberate,  though  unconscious,  atheism.  His  fall  is  surely 
near. 

At  last  Stangrave  and  his  second  appear.  Stangrave  is  haggard, 
not  from  fear,  but  from  misery,  and  rage,  and  self-condemnation. 
This  is  the  end  of  all  his  fine  resolves  ! Pah  ! what  use  in  them  % 
What  use  in  being  a martyr  in  this  world  h All  men  are  liars, 
and  all  women  too  ! 

Tom  and  Stangrave  stand  a little  apart  from  each  other,  while 
one  of  the  seconds  paced  the  distance.  He  steps  out  away  from, 
them,  across  the  crater  floor,  carrying  Tom’s  revolver  in  his  hand, 
till  he  reaches  the  required  point,  and  turns. 

He  turns  : but  not  to  come  back.  Without  a gesture  or  an 
exclamation  which  eould  explain  his  proceedings,  he  faces  about 
once  more,  and  rushes  up  the  slope  as  hard  as  legs  and  wind 
permitted. 

Tom  is  confounded  with  astonishment : either  the  Bursch  is 
seized  with  terror  at  the  whole  business,  or  he  covets  the  much- 
admired  revolver;  in  either  case,  he  is  making  off  with  it  before 
the  owner’s  eyes. 

“ Stop!  Hillo!  Stop  thief  ! He’s  got  my  pistol !”  and  away 
goes  Thurnall  in  chase  after  the  Bursch,  who,  never  looking 
behind,  never  sees  that  he  is  followed  : while  Stangrave  and  the 
second  Bursch  look  on  with  wide  eyes. 

How  the  Bursch  is  a “ gymnast,”  and  a capital  runner;  and 
so  is  Tom  likewise;  and  brilliant  is  the  race  upon  the  Falken- 
hohe.  But  the  victory,  after  a while,  becomes  altogether  a 
question  of  wind  ; for  it  was  all  up-hill.  The  crater,  being  one 
of  “ explosion,  and  not  of  elevation,”  as  the  geologists  would 
say,  does  not  slope  downward  again,  save  on  one  side,  from  its 
outer  lip ; and  Tom  and  the  Bursch  were  breasting  a fair  hill, 
after  they  had  emerged  from  the  “kessel”  below. 

How,  the  Bursch  had  had  too  much  Thronerhofberger  the 
night  before  ; and  possibly,  as  Burschen  will  in  their  vacations, 
the  night  before  that  also  ; whereby  his  diaphragm  surrendered 
at  discretion,  while  his  heels  were  yet  unconquered ; and  he  sud- 
denly felt  a strong  gripe,  and  a stronger  kick,  which  rolled  him 
over  on  the  turf. 

The  hapless  youth,  who  fancied  himself  alone  upon  the  moun- 
tain tops,  roared  mere  incoherences  ; and  Tom,  too  angry  to. 


A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER.  477 

listen,  and  too  hurried  to  punish,  tore  the  revolver  out  of  his 
grasp  ; whereon  one  barrel  exploded — 

“ I have  done  it  now  ! ” 

No  : the  hall  had  luckily  buried  itself  in  the  ground. 

Tom  turned,  to  rush  down  hill  again,  and  meet  the  impatient 
Stangrave. 

Crack — whing — g — g ! 

“ A bullet  ! ” 

Yes  ! And,  prodigy  on  prodigy,  up  the  hill  towards  him 
charged,  as  he  would  upon  a whole  army,  a Prussian  gendarme, 
with  bayonet  fixed. 

Tom  sat  down  upon  the  mountain-side,  and  hurst  into  inex- 
tinguishable laughter,  while  the  gendarme  came  charging  up, 
right  toward  his  very  nose. 

But  up  to  his  nose  he  charged  not ; for  his  wind  was 
short,  and  the  noise  of  his  roaring  went  before  him.  More- 
over, he  knew  that  Tom  had  a revolver,  and  was  a “ mad 
Englishman.” 

Now,  he  was  not  afraid  of  Tom,  or  of  a whole  army  : but  he 
was  a man  of  drills  and  of  orders,  of  rules  and  of  precedents,  as 
a Prussian  gendarme  ought  to  be ; and  for  the  modes  of  attacking 
infantry,  cavalry,  and  artillery,  man,  woman,  and  child,  thief  and 
poacher,  stray  pig,  or  even  stray  wolf,  he  had  drill  and  orders 
sufficient : but  for  attacking  a Colt’s  revolver,  none. 

Moreover,  for  arresting  all  manner  of  riotous  Burschen, 
drunken  boors,  Trench  red  Eepublicans,  Mazzini-hatted  Italian 
refugees,  suspect  Polish  incendiaries,  or  other  feras  naturae,  he 
had  precedent  and  regulation  : but  for  arresting  a mad  English- 
man, none.  He  held  fully  the  opinion  of  his  superiors,  that 
there  was  no  saying  what  an  Englishman  might  not,  could  not, 
and  would  not  do.  He  was  a sphinx,  a chimera,  a lunatic  broke 
loose,  who  took  unintelligible  delight  in  getting  wet,  and  dirty, 
and  tired,  and  starved,  and  all  but  killed ; and  called  the  same 
“ taking  exercise  ; ” — who  would  see  everything  that  nobody  ever 
cared  to  see,  and  who  knew  mysteriously  everything  about  every- 
where ; whose  deeds  were  like  his  opinions,  utterly  subversive  of 
all  constituted  order  in  heaven  and  earth ; being,  probably,  the 
inhabitant  of  another  planet ; possibly  the  man  in  the  moon 
himself,  who  had  been  turned  out,  having  made  his  native 
satellite  too  hot  to  hold  him.  All  that  was  to  be  done  with  him 
was  to  inquire  whether  his  passport  was  correct,  and  then  (with 
a due  regard  to  self-preservation)  to  endure  his  vagaries  in 
pitying  wonder. 

So  the  gendarme  paused  panting ; and  not  daring  to  approach, 
walked  slowly  and  solemnly  round  Tom,  keeping  the  point  of 
his  bayonet  carefully  towards  him,  and  roaring  at  intervals — 


478 


A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 


“ Yon  have  murdered  the  young  man  ! ” 

“ But  I have  not ! ” said  Tom.  “ Look  and  see.” 

“ But  I saw  him  fall ! ” 

“ But  lie  has  got  up  again,  and  run  away.” 

“ So  ! Then  where  is  your  passport  ? ” 

That  one  other  fact,  cognizable  hy  the  mind  of  a Prussian 
gendarme,  remained  as  an  anchor  for  his  brains  under  the  new 
and  trying  circumstances,  and  he  used  it.  “ Here  ! ” quoth  Tom, 
pulling  it  out. 

The  gendarme  stepped  cautiously  forward. 

“ Don't  be  frightened.  “ I’ll  stick  it  on  your  bayonet- 
point  ; ” and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  Tom  caught  the 
bayonet-point,  put  the  passport  on  it,  and  pulled  out  his  cigar- 
case. 

“ Mad  Englishman  ! ” murmured  the  gendarme.  “ So  ! The 
passport  is  correct.  But  der  Herr  must  consider  himself  under 
arrest.  Der  Herr  will  give  up  his  death-instrument.” 

“ By  all  means,”  says  Tom  : and  gives  up  the  revolver. 

The  gendarme  takes  it  very  cautiously ; meditates  awhile  how 
to  carry  it ; sticks  the  point  of  his  bayonet  into  its  muzzle,  and 
lifts  it  aloft. 

“ Schon ! Das  kriegt  ! Has  der  Herr  any  more  death- 
instruments  1 ” 

“ Dozens  ! ” says  Tom,  and  begins  fumbling  in  his  pockets  ; 
from  whence  he  pulls  a case  of  surgical  instruments,  another  of 
mathematical  ones,  another  of  lancets,  and  a knife  with  in- 
numerable blades,  saws,  and  pickers,  every  one  of  which  he 
opens  carefully,  and  then  spreads  the  whole  fearful  array  upon 
the  grass  before  him. 

The  gendarme  scratches  his  head  over  those  too  plain  proofs 
of  some  tremendous  conspiracy. 

“ So  ! Man  must  have  a dozen  hands  ! He  is  surely  Pal- 
merston himself ; or  at  least  Hecker,  or  Mazzini ! ” murmurs  he, 
as  he  meditates  how  to  stow  them  all. 

He  thinks  now  that  the  revolver  may  be  safe  elsewhere  ; and 
that  the  knife  will  do  best  on  the  bayonet-point.  So  he  unships 
the  revolver. 

Bang  goes  barrel  number  two,  and  the  ball  goes  into  the  turf 
between  his  feet. 

u You  will  shoot  yourself  soon,  at  that  rate,”  says  Tom. 

“ So  ? Der  Herr  speaks  German  like  a native,”  says  the 
gendarme,  growing  complimentary  in  his  perplexity.  “ Perhaps 
der  Herr  would  be  so  good  as  to  carry  his  death-instruments 
himself,  and  attend  on  the  Herr  Polizeirath,  who  is  waiting  to 
see  him.” 

“ By  all  means  ! ” And  Tom  picks  up  his  tackle,  while  the 


A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER.  479 

prudent  gendarme  reloads ; and  Tom  marches  down  the  hill, 
the  gendarme  following,  with  his  bayonet  disagreeably  near  the 
small  of  Tom’s  back. 

“ Don’t  stumble  ! Look  out  for  the  stones,  or  you’ll  nave 
that  skewer  through  me  ! ” 

“ So  ! Der  Herr  speaks  German  like  a native,”  says  the 
gendarme,  civilly.  “ It  is  certainly  der  Palmerston,”  thinks  ne, 
“his  manners  are  so  polite.” 

Once  at  the  crater  edge,  and  able  to  see  into  the  pit,  the 
mystery  is,  in  part  at  least,  explained  : for  there  stand  not  only 
Stangrave  and  Eursch  number  two,  but  a second  gendarme,  two 
elderly  gentlemen,  two  ladies,  and  a black  boy. 

One  is  Lieutenant  D * * * , by  his  white  moustache.  He  is 
lecturing  the  Eursch,  wdio  looks  sufficiently  foolish.  The  other 
is  a portly  and  awful-looking  personage  in  uniform,  evidently 
the  Polizeiratli  of  those  parts,  armed  with  the  just  terrors  of 
the  law  : but  Justice  has,  if  not  her  eyes  bandaged,  at  least  her 
hands  tied ; for  on  his  arm  hangs  Sabina,  smiling,  chatting, 
entreating.  The  Polizeirath  smiles,  bows,  ogles,  evidently  a 
willing  captive.  Venus  had  disarmed  Ehadamanthus,  as  she 
has  Mars  so  often;  and  the  sword  of  justice  must  rust  in  its 
scabbard. 

Some  distance  behind  them  is  Stangrave,  talking  in  a low 
voice,  earnestly,  passionately, — to  whom  but  to  Marie  ? 

And  lastly,  opposite  each  other,  and  like  two  dogs  who  are 
uncertain  whether  to  make  friends  or  fight,  are  a gendarme  and 
Sabina’s  black  boy  : the  gendarme,  with  shouldered  musket,  is 
trying  to  look  as  stiff  and  cross  as  possible,  being  scandalised  by 
his  superior  officer’s  defection  from  the  path  of  duty  ; and  still 
more  by  the  irreverence  of  the  black  boy,  who  is  dancing,  grin- 
ning, snapping  his  fingers,  in  delight  at  having  discovered  and 
prevented  the  coming  tragedy. 

Tom  descends,  bowing  courteously,  apologises  for  having  been 
absent  when  the  highly  distinguished  gentleman  arrived ; and 
turning  to  the  Eursch,  begs  him  to  transmit  to  his  friend  who 
has  run  away  his  apologies  for  the  absurd  mistake  which  led 
him  to,  &c.  &c. 

The  Polizeirath  looks  at  him  with  much  the  same  blank 
astonishment  as  the  gendarme  had  done  ; and  at  last  ends  by 
lifting  up  his  hands,  and  bursting  into  an  enormous  German 
laugh ; and  no  one  on  earth  can  laugh  as  a German  can,  so 
genially  and  lovingly,  and  with  such  intensQ  self-enjoyment. 

“ Oh,  you  English  ! you  English  ! You  are  all  mad,  I think! 
ETothing  can  shame  you,  and  nothing  can  frighten  you  ! Potz  ! 

I believe  when  your  Guards  at  Alma  walked  into  that  battery, 
the  other  day,  every  one.  of  them  was  whistling  your  Jim  Crow,. 


480  A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 

even  after  he  was  shot  dead  ! ” And  the  jolly  Polizeirath 
laughed  at  his  own  joke,  till  the  mountain  rang.  “But  you 
must  leave  the  country,  Sir;  indeed  you  must.  We  cannot 
permit  such  conduct  here — I am  very  sorry.” 

“ I entreat  you  not  to  apologise,  Sir.  In  any  case,  I was 
going  to  Alf  by  eight  o’clock,  to  meet  the  steamer  for  Treves. 
I am  on  my  way  to  the  war  in  the  East,  via  Marseilles.  If  you 
would,  therefore,  be  so  kind  as  to  allow  the  gendarme  to  return 
me  that  second  revolver,  which  also  belongs  to  me — ■” 

“ Give  him  his  pistol ! ” shouted  the  magistrate.  “ Potz  ! 
Let  us  be  rid  of  him  at  any  cost,  and  live  in  peace,  like  honest 
Germans.  Ah,  poor  Queen  Victoria  ! What  a lot ! To  have 
the  government  of  five-and-twenty  million  such  ! ” 

“Not  five-and-twenty  millions,”  says  Sabina.  “That  would 
include  the  ladies  ; and  we  are  not  mad  too,  surely,  your  Excel- 
lency ] ” 

The  Polizeirath  likes  to  be  called  your  Excellency,  of  course, 
or  any  other  mighty  title  which  does  or  does  not  belong  to  him ; 
and  that  Sabina  knows  full  well. 

“ Ah,  my  dear  madam,  how  do  I know  that  ] The  English 
ladies  do  every  day  here  what  no  other  dames  would  dare  or 
dream — what  then,  must  you  be  at  home  ] Ach  ! your  poor 
husbands ! ” 

“Mr.  Thurnall ! ” calls  Marie,  from  behind.  “Mr.  Thurnall!” 

Tom  comes,  with  a quaint,  dogged  smile  on  his  face. 

“ You  see  him,  Mr.  Stangrave  ! You  see  the  man  who  risked 
for  .me  liberty,  life, — who  rescued  me  from  slavery,  shame, 
suicide, — who  was  to  me  a brother,  a father,  for  years  ! — with- 
out whose  disinterested  heroism  you  would  never  have  set  eyes 
on  the  face  which  you  pretend  to  love.  And  you  repay  him  by 
suspicion — insult — Apologise  to  him,  Sir ! Ask  his  pardon 
now,  here,  utterly,  humbly  : or  never  speak  to  Marie  Lavington 
again  ! w 

Tom  looked  first  at  her,  and  then  at  Stangrave.  Marie  was 
convulsed  with  excitement ; her  thin  cheeks  were  crimson,  her 
eyes  flashed  very  flame.  Stangrave  was  pale — calm  outwardly, 
but  evidently  not  within.  He  was  looking  on  the  ground,  in 
thought  so  intense  that  he  hardly  seemed  to  hear  Marie.  Poor 
fellow!  he  had  heard  enough  in  the  last  ten  minutes  to  be- 
wilder any  brain. 

At  last  he  seemed  to  have  strung  himself  for  an  effort,  and 
spoke,  without  looking  up. 

“ Mr.  Thurnall ! ” 

“Sir]” 

“ I have  done  you  a great  'Wrong  ! ” 

“We  will  say  no  more  about  it,  Sir.  It  was  a mistake,  and 


A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER.  481 

I do  not  wish,  to  complicate  the  question.  My  true  ground  of 
quarrel  with  you  is  your  conduct  to  Miss  Lavington.  She 
seems  to  have  told  you  her  true  name,  so  I shall  call  her 
by  it.” 

4 4 What  I have  done,  I have  undone ! ” said  Stangrave,  look- 
ing up.  “ If  I have  wronged  her,  I have  offered  to  right  her  ; 
if  I have  left  her,  I have  sought  her  again  ; and  if  I left  her 
when  I knew  nothing,  now  that  I know  all,  I ask  her  here, 
before  you,  to  become  my  wife  ! ” 

Tom  looked  inquiringly  at  Marie. 

“ Yes  ; I have  told  him  all — all ! ” and  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

“ Well,”  said  Tom,  “ Mr.  Stangrave  is  a very  enviable  person ; 
and  the  match,  in  a worldly  point  of  view,  is  a most  fortunate 
one  for  Miss  Lavington ; and  that  stupid  rascal  of  a gendarme 
has  broken  my  revolver.” 

“ But  I have  not  accepted  him,”  cried  Marie ; “ and  I will 
not,  unless  you  give  me  leave.” 

Tom  saw  Stangrave’s  brow  lower,  and  pardonably  enough,  at 
this. 

“ My  dear  Miss  Lavington,  as  I have  never  been  able  to  settle 
my  own  love  affairs  satisfactorily  to  myself,  I do  not  feel  at  all 
competent  to  settle  other  people’s.  Good-bye  ! I shall  be  late 
for  the  steamer.”  And,  bowing  to  Stangrave  and  Marie,  he 
turned  to  go. 

“ Sabina  ! Stop  him  ! ” cried  she  ; “ he  is  going,  without  even 
a kind  word  ! ” 

“ Sabina/’  whispered  Tom  as  he  passed  her, — “ a bad  business 
— selfish  coxcomb  ; when  her  beauty  goes,  won’t  stand  her 
temper  and  her  flightiness  : but  I know  you  and  Claude  will 
take  care  of  the  poor  thing,  if  anything  happens  to  me.” 

“ You’re  wrong — prejudiced — indeed  ! ” 

“ Tut,  tut,  tut ! — Good-bye,  you  sweet  little  sunbeam.  Good 
morning,  gentlemen ! ” 

And  Tom  hurried  up  the  slope  and  out  of  sight,  while  Marie 
burst  into  an  agony  of  weeping. 

“ Gone,  without  a kind  word  ! ” 

Stangrave  bit  his  lip,  not  in  anger,  but  in  manly  self-reproach. 

“ It  is  my  fault,  Marie  ! my  fault ! He  knew  me  too  well  of 
old,  and  had  too  much  reason  to  despise  me  ! But  he  shall  have 
reason  no  longer.  He  will  come  back,  and  find  me  worthy  of 
you ; and  all  will  be  forgotten.  Again  I say  it,  I accept  your 
quest,  for  life  and  death.  So  help  me  God  above,  as  I will  not 
fail  or  falter,  till  I have  won  justice  for  you  and  for  your  race  ! 
Marie  ? ” 

He  conquered  : how  could  he  but  conquer  ? for  he  was  man, 


482  A RECENT  EXPLOSION  IN  AN  ANCIENT  CRATER. 

and  she  was  woman ; and  he  looked  more  noble  in  her  eyes, 
while  he  was  confessing  his  past  weakness,  than  he  had  ever 
done  in  his  proud  assertion  of  strength. 

But  she  spoke  no  word  in  answer.  She  let  him  take  her 
hand,  pass  her  arm  through  his,  and  lead  her  away,  as  one  who 
had  a right. 

They  walked  down  the  hill  behind  the  rest  of  the  party,  blest, 
but  silent  and  pensive ; he  with  the  weight  of  the  future,  she 
with  that  of  the  past. 

“ It  is  very  wonderful, : ” she  said  at  last.  “Wonderful  . . 
that  you  can  care  for  me.  . . . Oh,  if  I had  known  how  noble 
you  were,  I should  have  told  you  all  at  once.” 

“ Perhaps  I should  have  been  as  ignoble  as  ever,”  said  Stan- 
grave,  “ if  that  young  English  Yiscount  had  not  put  me  on  my 
mettle  by  his  own  nobleness.” 

“ No  ! no  ! Do  not  belie  yourself.  You  know  what  he  does 
not ; — what  I would  have  died  sooner  than  tell  him.” 

Stangrave  drew  the  arm  closer  through  his,  and  clasped  the 
hand.  Marie  did  not  withdraw  it. 

“Wonderful,  wonderful  love  ! ” she  said,  quite  humbly.  Her 
theatric  passionateness  had  passed ; — 

“ Nothing  was  left  of  her, 

Now,  hut  pure  womanly.  ” 

“That  you  can  love  me — me,  the  slave  ; me,  the  scourged; 
the  scarred — Oh  Stangrave  ! it  is  not  much — not  much  really  ; 
— only  a little  mark  or  two  , . . ” 

“ I will  prize  them,”  he  answered,  smiling  through  tears, 
“ more  than  all  your  loveliness.  I will  see  in  them  God's  com- 
mandment to  me,  written  not  on  tables  of  stone,  but  on  fair, 
pure,  noble  flesh.  My  Marie ! You  shall  have  cause  even  to 
rejoice  in  them  ! ” 

“ I glory  in  them  now ; for,  without  them,  I never  should 
have  known  all  your  worth.” 

* * * * * * 

The  next  day  Stangrave,  Marie,  and  Sabina  were  hurrying 
home  to  England ! while  Tom  Thurnall  was  hurrying  to  Mar- 
seilles, to  vanish  Eastward  Ho. 

He  has  escaped  once  more  : but  his  heart  is  hardened  stilk 
What  will  his  fall  be  like  'l 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


483 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

And  now  two  years  and  more  are  past  and  gone ; and  all 
whose  lot  it  was  have  come  Westward  Ho  once  more,  sadder  and 
wiser  men  to  their  lives’  end ; save  one  or  two,  that  is,  from 
whom  not  even  Solomon’s  pestle  and  mortar  discipline  would 
pound  out  the  innate  folly. 

Prank  has  come  home  stouter  and  browner,  as  well  as  heartier 
and  wiser,  than  he  went  forth.  He  is  Valencia’s  husband  now, 
and  rector,  not  curate,  of  Aberalva  town ; and  Valencia  makes 
him  a noble  rector’s  wife. 

She,  too,  has  had  her  sad  experiences ; — of  more  than  absent 
love ; for  when  the  news  of  Inkerman  arrived,  she  was  sitting 
by  Lucia’s  death-bed ; and  when  the  ghastly  list  came  home, 
and  with  it  the  news  of  Scoutbush  “ severely  wounded  by  a 
musket-ball,”  she  had  just  taken  her  last  look  of  the  fair  face, 
and  seen  in  fancy  the  fair  spirit  greeting  in  the  eternal  world  the 
soul  of  him  whom  she  loved  unto  the  death.  She  had  hurried 
out  to  Scutari,  to  nurse  her  brother ; had  seen  there  many  a 
sight — she  best  knows  what  she  saw.  She  sent  Scoutbush  back 
to  the  Crimea,  to  try  his  chance  once  more ; and  then  came 
home  to  be  a mother  to  those  three  orphan  children,  from  whom 
she  vowed  never  to  part.  So  the  children  went  with  Prank  and 
her  to  Aberalva,  and  Valencia  had  learnt  half  a mother’s  duties, 
ere  she  had  a baby  of  her  own. 

And  thus  to  her,  as  to  all  hearts,  has  the  war  brought  a disci- 
pline from  heaven. 

Prank  shrank  at  first  from  returning  to  Aberalva,  when  Scout- 
bush offered  him  the  living  on  old  St.  Just’s  death.  But  Valen- 
cia all  but  commanded  him ; so  he  went : and,  behold  his  return 
was  a triumph. 

All  was  understood  now,  all  forgiven,  all  forgotten,  save  his 
conduct  in  the  cholera,  by  the  loving,  honest,  brave  West-country 
hearts ; and  when  the  new-married  pair  were  rung  into  the  town, 
amid  arches  and  garlands,  flags  and  bonfires,  the  first  man  to 
welcome  Prank  into  his  rectory  was  old  Tardrew. 

Hot  a word  of  repentance  or  apology  ever  passed  the  old  bull- 
dog’s lips.  He  was  an  Englishman,  and  kept  his  opinions  to 
himself.  But  he  had  had  his  lesson  like  the  rest,  two  years  ago, 
in  his  young  daughter’s  death ; and  Prank  had  thenceforth  no 
faster  friend  than  old  Tardrew. 

Prank  is  still  as  High  Church  as  ever ; and  likes  all  pomp  and 

i i 2 


484 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


circumstance  of  worship.  Some  few  whims  he  has  given  up, 
certainly,  for  fear  of  giving  offence ; hut  he  might  indulge  them 
once  more,  if  he  wished,  without  a quarrel.  For  now  that  the 
people  understand  him,  he  does  just  what  he  likes.  His  congre- 
gation is  the  best  in  the  archdeaconry ; one  meeting-house  is  dead, 
and  the  other  dying.  His  choir  is  admirable ; for  Valencia  has 
had  the  art  of  drawing  to  her  all  the  musical  talent  of  the  tuneful 
West-country  folk ; and  all  that  he  needs,  he  thinks,  to  make  his 
parish  perfect,  is  to  see  Grace  Harvey  schoolmistress  once  more. 

What  can  have  worked  the  change  ? It  is  difficult  to  say, 
unless  it  be  that  Frank  has  found  out,  from  cholera  and  hospital 
experiences,  that  his  parishioners  are  beings  of  like  passions  with 
himself;  and  found  out,  too,  that  his  business  is  to  leave  the 
Gospel  of  damnation  to  those  whose  hapless  lot  it  is  to  earn  their 
bread  by  pandering  to  popular  superstition ; and  to  employ  his 
independent  position,  as  a free  rector,  in  telling  his  people  the 
Gospel  of  salvation — that  they  have  a Father  in  heaven. 

Little  Scoutbush  comes  down  often  to  Aberalva  now,  and 
oftener  to  his  Irish  estates.  He  is  going  to  marry  the  Manchester 
lady  after  all,  and  to  settle  down ; and  try  to  be  a good  landlord ; 
•and  use  for  the  benefit  of  his  tenants  the  sharp  experience  of 
human  hearts,  human  sorrows,  and  human  duty,  which  he  gained 
in  the  Crimea  two  years  ago. 

And  Major  Campbell  ? 

Look  on  Cathcart’s  Hill.  A stone  is  there,  which  is  the  only 
earthly  token  of  that  great  experience  of  all  experiences  which 
Campbell  gained  two  years  ago. 

A little  silk  bag  was  found,  hung  round  his  neck,  and  lying 
next  his  heart.  He  seemed  to  have  expected  his  death ; for  he 
had  put  a label  on  it — 

“ To  be  sent  to  Viscount  Scoutbush  for  Miss  St.  Just.” 

Scoutbush  sent  it  home  to  Valencia,  who  opened  it,  blind  with 
tears. 

It  was  a note,  written  seven  years  before ; but  not  by  her ; by 
Lucia  ere  her  marriage.  A simple  invitation  to  dinner  in  Eaton 
Square,  written  for  Lady  Knockdown,  but  with  a postscript  from 
Lucia,  herself : “ Do  come,  and  I will  promise  not  to  teaze  you 
as  I did  last  night.” 

That  was,  perhaps,  the  only  kind  or  familiar  word  which  he 
had  ever  had  from  his  idol ; and  he  had  treasured  it  to  the  last. 
Women  can  love,  as  this  book  sets  forth  : but  now  and  then  men 
can  love  too,  if  they  be  men,  as  Major  Campbell  was. 

And  Trebooze  of  Trebooze  ? 

Even  Trebooze  got  his  new  lesson  two  years  ago.  Terrified 
into  sobriety,  he  went  into  the  militia,  and  soon  took  delight 
therein.  He  worked,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  early  and  late, 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


485 


at  a work  which  was  suited  for  him.  He  soon  learnt  not  to 
swear  and  rage,  for  his  men  would  not  stand  it ; and  not  to  get 
drunk,  for  his  messmates  would  not  stand  it.  He  got  into  better 
society  and  better  health  than  he  ever  had  had  before.  With 
new  self-discipline  has  come  new  self-respect ; and  he  tells  his 
wife  frankly,  that  if  he  keeps  straight  henceforth,  he  has  to  thank 
for  it  his  six  months  at  Aldershott. 

And  Mary  ? 

When  you  meet  Mary  in  heaven,  you  can  ask  her  there. 

But  Frank's  desire,  that  Grace  should  become  his  school- 
mistress once  more,  is  not  fulfilled. 

How  she  worked  at  Scutari  and  at  Balaklava,  there  is  no  need 
to  tell.  Why  mark  her  out  from  the  rest,  when  all  did  more 
than  nobly  ? The  lesson  which  she  needed  was  not  that  which 
hospitals  could  teach;  she  had  learnt  that  already.  It  was  a 
deeper  and  more  dreadful  lesson  still.  She  had  set  her  heart  on 
finding  Tom ; on  righting  him,  on  righting  herself.  She  had  to 
learn  to  be  content  not  to  find  him ; not  to  right  him,  not  to  right 
herself. 

And  she  learnt  it.  Tearless,  uncomplaining,  she  “trusted  in 
God,  and  made  no  haste."  She  did  her  work,  and  read  her 
Bible ; and  read  too,  again  and  again,  at  stolen  moments  of  rest, 
a book  which  some  one  lent  her,  and  which  was  to  her  as  the 
finding  of  an  unknown  sister — Longfellow’s  Evangeline.  She 
was  Evangeline ; seeking  as  she  sought,  perhaps  to  find  as  she 
found — Ho ! merciful  God  ! Hot  so  ! yet  better  so  than  not  at 
all.  And  often  and  often,  when  a new  freight  of  agony  was 
landed,  she  looked  round  from  bed  to  bed,  if  his  face  too,  might 
be  there.  And  once,  at  Balaklava,  she  knew  she  saw  him  : but 
not  on  a sick  bed. 

Standing  beneath  the  window,  chatting  merrily  with  a group 
of  officers — It  was  he  ! Could  she  mistake  that  figure,  though 
the  face  was  turned  away  h 

Her  head  swam,  her  pulses  beat  like  church  bells,  her  eyes 
w^ere  ready  to  burst  from  their  sockets.  But — she  was  assisting 
at  an  operation.  It  was  God’s  will,  and  she  must  endure. 

When  the  operation  wras  over,  she  darted  wildly  down  the 
stairs  without  a word. 

He  was  gone. 

Without  a word  she  came  back  to  her  wTork,  and  possessed 
her  soul  in  patience. 

Inquiries,  indeed,  she  made,  as  she  had  a right  to  do  ; but  no 
one  knew  the  name.  She  questioned,  and  caused  to  be  ques- 
tioned, men  from  Varna,  from  Sevastopol,  from  Kertch,  from  the 
Circassian  coast ; English,  French,  and  Sardinian,  Pole  and  Turk. 
Ho  one  had  ever  heard  the  name.  She  even  found  at  last,  and 


486 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


questioned,  one  of  the  officers  who  had  formed  that  group  be- 
neath the  window. 

“ Oh  ! that  man  1 He  was  a Pole,  Michaelowyzcki,  or  some 
such  name.  At  least,  so  he  said ; but  he  suspected  the  man  to 
be  really  a Eussian  spy.” 

Grace  knew  that  it  was  Tom  : but  she  went  back  to  her  w~ork 
again,  and  in  due  time  went  home  to  England. 

Home,  but  not  to  Aberalva.  She  presented  herself  one  day 
at  Mark  Armsworth’s  house  in  Whitbury,  and  humbly  begged 
him  to  obtain  her  a place  as  servant  to  old  Dr.  Thurnall.  What 
her  purpose  was  therein  she  did  not  explain ; perhaps  she  hardly 
knew  herself. 

Jane,  the  old  servant  who  had  clung  to  the  Doctor  through 
his  reverses,  was  growing  old  and  feeble,  and  was  all  the  more 
jealous  of  an  intruder  : but  Grace  disarmed  her. 

“ I do  not  want  to  interfere  ; I will  be  under  your  orders.  I 
will  be  kitchen-maid — maid-of  all-work.  I want  no  wages.  , I 
have  brought  home  a little  money  with  me ; enough  to  last  me 
for  the  little  while  I shall  be  here.” 

And, s by  the  help  of  Mark  and  Mary,  she  took  up  her  abode 
in  the  old  man’s  house  ; and  ere  a month  was  past  she  was  to 
him  as  a daughter. 

Perhaps  she  had  told  him  all.  At  least,  there  was  some  deep 
and  pure  confidence  between  them  ; and  yet  one  which,  so  per- 
fect was  Grace’s  humility,  did  not  make  old  Jane  jealous.  Grace 
cooked,  swept,  washed,  went  to  and  fro  as  Jane  bade  her ; 
submitted  to  all  her  grumblings  and  tossings  ; and  then  came  at 
the  old  man’s  bidding  to  read  to  him  every  evening,  her  hand 
in  his  ; her  voice  cheerful,  her  face  full  of  quiet  light.  But  her 
hair  was  becoming  streaked  with  grey.  Her  face,  howsoever 
gentle,  was  sharpened,  as  if  with  continual  pain.  Ho  wonder ; 
for  she  had  worn  that  belt  next  her  heart  for  now  two  years  and 
more,  till  it  had  almost  eaten  into  the  heart  above  which  it  lay. 
It  gave  her  perpetual  pain  : and  yet  that  pain  was  a perpetual 
joy — a perpetual  remembrance  of  him,  and  of  that  walk  with 
him  from  Tolchard’s  farm. 

Mary  loved  her — wanted  to  treat  her  as  an  equal — to  call  her 
sister : but  Grace  drew  back  lovingly,  but  humbly,  from  all 
advances ; for  she  had  divined  Mary’s  secret  with  the  quick  eye 
of  woman  ; she  saw  how  Mary  grew  daily  paler,  thinner,  sadder, 
and  knew  for  whom  she  mourned.  Be  it  so  ; Mary  had  a right 
to  him,  and  she  had  none. 

* * jfc  * * 

And  where  was  Tom  Thurnall  all  the  while  ? 

No  man  could  tell. 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


487 


Mark  inquired ; Lord  Minch ampstead  inquired  ; great  per- 
sonages who  had  need  of  him  at  home  and  abroad  inquired : but 
all  in  vain. 

A few  knew,  and  told  Lord  Minchampstead,  who  told  Mark, 
in  confidence,  that  he  had  been  heard  of  last  in  the  Circassian 
mountains,  about  Christmas,  1854 : but  since  then  all  was  blank. 
He  had  vanished  into  the  infinite  unknown. 

Mark  swore  that  he  would  come  home  some  day : but  two 
full  years  were  past,  and  Tom  came  not. 

The  old  man  never  seemed  to  regret  him ; never  mentioned 
his  name  after  a while. 

“ Mark,”  he  said  once,  “ remember  David.  Why  weep  for 
the  child  ? I shall  go  to  him,  but  he  will  not  come  to  me.” 

Hone  knew,  meanwhile,  why  the  old  man  needed  not  to  talk 
of  Tom  to  his  friends  and  neighbours ; it  was  because  he  and 
Grace  never  talked  of  anything  else. 

5?C  5?C  SjC  SjS  S%S 

So  they  had  lived,  and  so  they  had  waited,  till  that  week  before 
last  Christmas-day,  when  Mellot  and  Stangrave  made  their  ap- 
pearance in  Whitbury,  and  became  Mark  Armsworth’s  guests. 

The  week  slipped  on.  Stangrave  hunted  on  alternate  days  ; 
and  on  the  others  went  with  Claude,  who  photographed  (when 
there  was  sun  to  do  it  with)  Stangrave  End,  and  Whitford 
Priory,  interiors  and  exteriors  ; not  forgetting  the  Stangrave 
monuments  in  Whitbury  church;  and  sat,  too,  for  many  a 
pleasant  hour  with  the  good  Doctor,  who  took  to  him  at  once, 
as  all  men  did.  It  seemed  to  give  fresh  life  to  the  old  man  to 
listen  to  Tom’s  dearest  friend.  To  him,  as  to  Grace,  he  could 
talk  openly  about  the  lost  son,  and  live  upon  the  memory  of  his 
prowess  and  his  virtues ; and  ere  the  week  was  out,  the  Doctor, 
and  Grace  too,  had  heard  a hundred  gallant  feats,  to  tell  all 
which  would  add  another  volume  to  this  book. 

And  Grace  stood  silently  by  the  old  man’s  chair,  and  drank 
all  in  without  a smile,  without  a sigh,  but  not  without  full  many 
a prayer. 

* * * * * ■ * 

It  is  the  blessed  Christmas  Eve ; the  light  is  failing  fast ; 
when  down  the  high  street  comes  the  mighty  Homan -nosed  rat- 
tail  which  carries  Mark’s  portly  bulk,  and  by  him  Stangrave,  on 
a right  good  horse. 

They  shog  on  side  by  side — not  home,  but  to  the  Doctor’s 
house.  For  every  hunting  evening  Mark’s  groom  meets  him  at 
the  Doctor’s  door  to  lead  the  horses  home,  while  he,  before  he 
will  take  his  bath  and  dress,  brings  to  his  blind  friend  the  gossip 
of  the  field,  and  details  to  him  every  joke,  fence,  find,  kill,  hap 
and  mishap  of  the  last  six  hours. 


488 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


The  old  man,  meanwhile,  is  sitting  quietly,  with  Claude  by 
him,  talking — as  Claude  can  talk.  They  are  not  speaking  of 
Tom  just  now  : but  the  eloquent  artist’s  conversation  suits  well 
enough  the  temper  of  the  good  old  man,  yearning  after  fresh 
knowledge,  even  on  the  brink  of  the  grave  : but  too  feeble  now, 
in  body  and  in  mind,  to  do  more  than  listen.  Claude  is  telling 
him  about  the  late  Photographic  Exhibition  ; and  the  old  man 
listens  with  a triumphant  smile  to  wonders  which  he  will  never 
behold  with  mortal  eyes.  At  last, — 

“ This  is  very  pleasant — to  feel  surer  and  surer,  day  by  day, 
that  one  is  not  needed ; that  science  moves  forward  swift  and 
sure,  under  a higher  guidance  than  one’s  own  ; that  the  sacred 
torch-race  never  can  stand  still ; that  He  has  taken  the  lamp 
out  of  old  and  failing  hands,  only  to  put  it  into  young  and 
brave  ones,  who  will  not  falter  till  they  reach  the  goal.” 

Then  he  lies  back  again,  with  closed  eyes,  waiting  for  more 
facts  from  Claude. 

“ How  beautiful ! ” says  Claude — “ I must  compliment  you, 
Sir — to  see  the  child-like  heart  thus  still  beating  fresh  beneath 
the  honours  of  the  grey  head,  without  envy,  without  vanity, 
without  ambition,  welcoming  every  new  discovery,  rejoicing  to 
see  the  young  outstripping  them.” 

“ And  what  credit,  Sir,  to  us  ? Our  knowledge  did  not  be- 
long to  us,  but  to  Him  who  made  us,  and  the  universe ; and  our 
sons’  belonged  to  Him  likewise.  If  they  be  wiser  than  their 
teachers,  it  is  only  because  they,  like  their  teachers,  have  made 
His  testimonies  their  study.  When  we  rejoice  in  the  progress 
of  science,  we  rejoice  not  in  ourselves,  not  in  our  children,  but 
in  God  our  Instructor.” 

And  all  the  while,  hidden  in  the  gloom  behind,  stands 
Grace,  her  arms  folded  over  her  bosom,  watching  every  move- 
ment of  the  old  man ; and  listening,  too,  to  every  word.  She 
can  understand  but  little  of  it : but  she  loves  to  hear  it,  for  it 
reminds  her  of  Tom  Thurnall.  Above  all  she  loves  to  hear  about 
the  microscope,  a mystery  inseparable  in  her  thoughts  from  him 
who  first  showed  her  its  wonders. 

At  last  the  old  man  speaks  again  : — 

“ Ah ! How  delighted  my  boy  will  be  when  he  returns,  to 
find  that  so  much  has  been  done  during  his  absence.” 

Claude  is  silent  awhile,  startled. 

“ You  are  surprised  to  hear  me  speak  so  confidently  h Well, 
I can  only  speak  as  I feel.  I have  had,  for  some  days  past,  a 
presentiment — you  will  think  me,  doubtless,  weak  for  yielding 
to  it.  I am  not  superstitious.” 

“ Hot  so,”  said  Claude,  “ but  I cannot  deny  that  such  things 
as  presentiments  may  be  possible.  However  miraculous  they 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


489 


may  seem,  are  they  so  very  much  more  so  than  the  daily  fact  of 
memory  ? I can  as  little  guess  why  we  can  remember  the  past 
as  why  we  may  not,  at  times,  be  able  to  foresee  the  future.” 

“ True.  You  speak,  if  not  like  a physican,  yet  like  a meta- 
physician ; so  you  will  not  laugh  at  me,  and  compel  the  weak 
old  man  arid  his  fancy  to  take  refuge  with  a girl — who  is  not 
weak. — Grace,  darling,  you  think  still  that  he  is  coming  h ” 

She  came  forward  and  leaned  over  him. 

“ Yes,”  she  half  whispered.  “ He  is  coming  soon  to  us  : or 
else  we  are  soon  going  to  him.  It  may  mean  that,  Sir.  Perhaps 
it  is  better  that  it  should.” 

“ It  matters  little,  child,  if  he  be  near,  as  near  he  is.  I tell 
you,  Mr.  Mellot,  this  conviction  has  become  so  intense  during  the 
last  week,  that — that  I believe  I should  not  be  thrown  off  my 
balance  if  he  entered  at  this  moment  ...  I feel  him  so  near 
me,  Sir,  that — that  I could  swear,  did  I not  know  how  the  weak 
brain  imitates  expected  sounds,  that  I heard  his  footstep  outside 
now.” 

“I  heard  horses’  footsteps,”  says  Claude. — “ Ah,  there  comes 
Stangrave  and  our  host.” 

“ I heard  them  : but  I heard  my  boy’s  likewise,”  said  the  old 
man  quietly. 

The  next  minute  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  fancy,  as 
the  two  hunters  entered,  and  Mark  began  open-mouthed  as 
usual — 

“ Well,  Ned  ! In  good  company,  eh  ? That’s  right.  Mortal 
cold  I am!  We  shall  have  a white  Christmas,  I expect.  Snow’s 
coming.” 

“ What  sport  t ” asked  the  Doctor  blandly. 

“ Oh  ! Nothing  new.  Bothered  about  Sidricstone  till  one. 
Got  away  at  last  with  an  old  fox,  and  over  the  downs  into  the 
vale.  I think  Mr.  Stangrave  liked  it  ? ” 

Mr.  Stangrave  likes  the  vale  better  than  the  vale  likes  him. 
I have  fallen  into  two  brooks  following,  Claude  ; to  the  delight 
of‘  all  the  desperate  Englishmen.” 

“ Oh ! You  rode  straight  enough,  Sir  ! You  must  pay  for 
your  fun  in  the  vale  : — but  then  you  have  your  fun.  But  there 
were  a good  many  falls  the  last  ten  minutes  : ground  heavy,  and 
pace  awful ; old  Bat-tail  had  enough  to  do  to  hold  his  own.  Saw 
one  fellow  ride  bang  into  a pollard- window,  when  there  was  an 
open  gate  close  to  him — cut  his  cheek  open,  and  lay  ; but  some 
one  said  it  was  only  Smith  of  Ewebury,  so  I rode  on.” 

“I  hope  you  English  showed  more  pity  to  your  wounded 
friends  in  the  Crimea,”  quoth  Stangrave,  laughing,  “ I wanted  to 
stop  and  pick  him  up  : but  Mr.  Armsworth  would  not  hear 
of  it.” 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


m 

“ Oh,  Sir,  if  it  had  been  a stranger  like  yon,  half  the  field 
would  have  been  round  you  in  a minute  : but  Smith  don’t  count 
— he  breaks  his  neck  on  purpose  three  days  a week : — by  the 
bye,  Doctor,  got  a good  story  of  him  for  you.  Suspected  his 
keepers  last  month.  Slips  out  of  bed  at  two  in  the  morning ; 
into  his  own  covers,  and  blazes  away  for  an  hour.  Nobody 
comes.  Home  to  bed,  and  tries  the  same  thing  next  night.  Not 
a soul  comes  near  him.  Next  morning  has  up  keepers,  watchers, 
beaters,  the  whole  posse;  and  ‘Now,  you  rascals!  I’ve  been 
poaching  my  own  covers  two  nights  running,  and  you’ve  been  all 
drunk  in  bed.  There  are  your  wages  to  the  last  penny ; and 
vanish  ! I’ll  be  my  own  keeper  henceforth ; and  never  let  me 
see  your  faces  again  ! ’ ” 

The  old  Doctor  laughed  cheerily.  “ Well : but  did  vou  kill 
your  fox  ? ” 

“ All  right : but  it  was  a burster, — just  what  I always  tell 
Mr.  Stangrave.  Afternoon  runs  are  good  runs  ; pretty  sure  of 
an  empty  fox  and  a good  scent  after  one  o’clock.” 

“ Exactly,”  answered  a fresh  voice  from  behind ; “ and  fox- 
hunting is  an  epitome  of  human  life.  You  chop  or  lose  your 
first  two  or  three  : but  keep  up  your  pluck,  and  you’11  run  into 
one  before  sun-down ; — and  I seem  to  have  run  into  a whole 
earthful ! ” 

All  looked  round ; for  all  knew  that  voice. 

Yes  ! There  he  was,  in  bodily  flesh  and  blood ; thin,  sallow, 
bearded  to  the  eyes,  dressed  in  ragged  sailor’s  clothes  : but  Tom 
himself. 

Grace  uttered  a long,  low,  soft,  half-laughing  cry,  full  of  the 
delicious  agony  of  sudden  relief ; a cry  as  of  a mother  when  her 
child  is  born;  and  then  slipped  from  the  room  past  the  un- 
heeding Tom-,  who  had  no  eyes  but  for  his  father.  Straight  up 
to  the  old  man  he  went,  took  both  his  hands,  and  spoke  in  the 
old  cheerful  voice, — 

“Well,  my  dear  old  daddy  ! So  you  seem  to  have  expected 
me  ; and  gathered,  I suppose,  all  my  friends  to  bid  me  welcome. 
I’m  afraid  I have  made  you  very  anxious  : but  it  was  not  my 
fault ; and  I knew  you  would  be  certain  I should  come  at  last, 
eh?” 

“ My  son  ! my  son  ! Let  me  feel  whether  thou  be  my  very 
son  Esau  or  not ! ” murmured  the  old  man,  finding  half-playful 
expression  in  the  words  of  Scripture,  for  feelings  beyond  his 
failing  powers. 

Tom  knelt  down : and  the  old  man  passed  his  hands  in  silence 
over  and  over  the  forehead,  and  face,  and  beard  ; while  all  stood 
silent. 

Mark  Armsworth  burst  out  blubbering  like  a great  boy  : 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EYE.  491 

“ I said  so  ! I always  said  so  ! The  devil  could  not  kill  him, 
and  God  wouldn’t ! ” 

“ You  won’t  go  away  again,  dear  boy  'l  I’m  getting  old — 
and — and  forgetful ; and  I don’t  think  I could  bear  it  again, 
you  see.” 

Tom  saw  that  the  old  man’s  powers  were  failing.  “ Never 
again,  as  long  as  I live,  daddy ! ” said  he,  and  then,  looking 
round, — “ I think  that  we  are  too  many  for  my  father.  I will 
come  and  shake  hands  "with  you  all  presently.” 

“ No,  no,”  said  the  Doctor.  “ You  forget  that  I cannot  see 
you,  and  so  must  only  listen  to  you.  It  will  be  a delight  to 
hear  your  voice  and  theirs  ; — they  all  love  you.” 

A few  moments  of  breathless  congratulation  followed,  during 
which  Mark  had  seized  Tom  by  both  his  shoulders,  and  held  him 
admiriugly  at  arm’s  length. 

aLook  at  him,  Mr.  Mellott ! Mr.  Stangrave  ! Look  at  him ! 
As  they  said  of  Liberty  Wilkes,  you  might  rob  him,  strip  him, 
and  hit  him  over  London  Bridge : and  you  find  him  the  next 
day  in  the  same  place,  with  a laced  coat,  a sword  by  his  side, 
and  money  in  his  pocket ! But  how  did  you  come  in  without 
our  knowing  ? ” 

“ I waited  outside,  afraid  of  what  I might  hear — for  how 
could  I tell'?”  said  he,  lowering  his  voice ; “but  when  I saw 
you  go  in,  I knew  all  was  right,  and  followed  you  ; and  when  I 
heard  my  father  laugh,  I knew  that  he  could  bear  a little  sur- 
prise. But,  Stangrave,  did  you  say  h Ah  ! this  is  too  delightful, 
old  fellow  ! How’s  Marie  and  the  children  'l  ” 

Stangrave,  who  was  very  uncertain  as  to  how  Tom  would 
receive  him,  had  been  about  to  make  his  amende  honorable  in 
a fashion  graceful,  magnificent,  and,  as  he  expressed  it  after- 
wards laughingly  to  Thurnall  himself,  “ altogether  highfelutin  : ” 
but  whatsoever  chivalrous  and  courtly  words  had  arranged  them- 
selves upon  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  were  so  utterly  upset  by  Tom’s 
matter-of-fact  bonhomie,  and  by  the  cool  way  in  which  ne  took 
for  granted  the  fact  of  his  marriage,  that  he  burst  out  laughing, 

and  caught  both  Tom’s  hands  in  his 

“It  is  delightful ; and  all  it  needs  to  make  it  -perfect  is  to 
have  Marie  and  the  children  here.” 

“ How  many  ? ” asked  Tom. 

“Two.” 

“ Is  she  as  beautiful  as  ever ! ” 

“ More  so,  I think.” 

“ I dare  say  you’re  right ; you  ought  to  know  best,  certainly.” 
“You  shall  judge  for  yourself.  She  is  in  London  at  this 
moment.” 

“ Tom  !*”  says  his  father,  who  has  been  sitting  quietly,  his 


492 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


face  covered  in  his  handkerchief,  listening  to  all,  while  holy 
tears  of  gratitude  steal  down  his  face. 

“ Sir ! ” 

“ You  have  not  spoken  to  Grace  yet ! ” 

“ Grace  'l  ” cries  Tom,  in  a very  different  tone  from  that  in 
which  he  had  yet  spoken. 

“ Grace  Harve}^  my  hoy.  She  was  in  the  room  when  you 
came  in.” 

“ Grace  Grace  1 What  is  she  doing  here  ? ” 

“ Hursing  him,  like  an  angel  as  she  is  ! ” said  Mark. 

“ She  is  .my  daughter  now,  Tom  ; and  has  been  these  twelve 
months  past.” 

Tom  was  silent,  as  one  astonished. 

“ If  she  is  not,  she  will  he  soon,”  said  he  quietly,  between  his 
clenched  teeth.  “ Gentlemen,  if  youdl  excuse  me  for  five 
minutes,  and  see  to  my  father  : ” — and  he  walked  straight  out  of 
the  room,  closing  the  door  behind  him — to  find  Grace  waiting 
in  the  passage. 

She  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  stepping  to  and  fro,  her 
hands  and  face  all  hut  convulsed ; her  left  hand  over  her  bosom, 
clutching  at  her  dress,  which  seemed  to  have  been  just  dis- 
arranged ; her  right  drawn  hack,  holding  something ; her  lips 
parted,  struggling  to  speak  ; her  great  eyes  opened  to  preter- 
natural wideness,  fixed  on  him  with  an  intensity  of  eagerness  ; — 
was  she  mad  ? 

At  last  words  bubbled  forth  : “ There  ! there  ! There  it  is  ! — 
the  belt ! — your  belt ! Take  it ! take  it,  I say  ! ” 

He  stood  silent  and  wondering ; she  thrust  it  into  his 
hand. 

“ Take  it ! I have  carried  it  for  you — worn  it  next  my  heart, 
till  it  has  all  hut  eaten  into  my  heart. — To  Varna,  and  you  were 
not  there ! — Scutari,  Balaklava,  and  you  were  not  there  ! — 
I found  it,  only  a week  after  ! — I told  you  I should ! and  you 
were  gone  ! — Cruel,  not  to  wait ! And  Mr.  Armsworth  has  the 
money — every  farthing — and  the  gold  : — he  has  had  it  these 
two  years ! — I would  give  you  the  belt  myself ; and  now  I 
have  done  it,  and  the  snake  is  unclasped  from  my  heart  at 
last,  at  last,  at  last ! ” 

Her  arms  dropped  by  her  side,  and  she  hurst  into  an  agony  of 
tears. 

Tom  caught  her  in  his  arms  : hut  she  put  him  hack,  and 
looked  up  in  his  face  again. 

“ Promise  me  ! ” she  said,  in  a low  clear  voice  ; “ promise  me 
this  one  thing  only,  as  you  are  a gentleman  ; as  you  have  a man's 
pity,  a man’s  gratitude,  in  you  ” — 

“ Anything  ! ” 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  493 

“ Promise  me  that  you  will  never  ask,  or  seek  to  know,  who 
had  that  belt.” 

“ I promise  : hut,  Grace  ! ” — 

“Then  my  work  is  over,”  said  she  in  a calm  collected  voice. 
“ Amen.  So  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace.  Good- 
bye, Mr.  Thurnall.  I must  go  and  pack  up  my  few  things  now. 
You  will  forgive  and  forget  2 ” 

“ Grace  ! ” cried  Tom  ; “ stay  ! ” and  he  girdled  her  in  a grasp 
of  iron.  “You  and  I never  part  more  in  this  life,  perhaps  not 
in  all  lives  to  come  ! ” 

“ Me  ] I h — let  me  go  ! I am  not  worthy  of  you  ! ” 

“ I have  heard  that  once  already  ; — the  only  folly  which  ever 
came  out  of  those  sweet  lips.  No  ! Grace.  I love  you,  as  man 
can  love  hut  once  ; and  you  shall  not  refuse  me  ! You  will  not 
have  the  heart,  Grace  ! You  will  not  dare,  Grace  ! For  you 
have  begun  the  work ; and  you  must  finish  it.” 

“ Work  h What  work  ] ” 

“ I don’t  know,”  said  Tom.  “ How  should  1 1 I want  you 
to  tell  me  that.” 

She  looked  up  in  his  face,  puzzled.  His  old  self-confident 
look  seemed  strangely  past  away. 

“ I will  tell  you”  he  said,  “ because  I love  you.  I don’t  like 
to  show  it  to  them;  but  I’ve  been  frightened,  Grace,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life.” 

She  paused  for  an  explanation ; but  she  did  not  struggle  to 
escape  from  him. 

“ Frightened ; beat ; run  to  eartii  myself,  though  I talked  so 
bravely  of  running  others  to  earth  just  now.  Grace,  I’ve  been 
in  prison ! ” 

“ In  prison  ? In  a Eussian  prison  ? Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall ! ” 

“ Aye,  Grace,  I’d  tried  everything  but  that ; and  I could  not 
stand  it.  Death  was  a joke  to  that.  Not  to  be  able  to  get  out ! 
— To  rage  up  and  down  for  hours  like  a wild  beast ; — long 
to  fly  at  one’s  gaoler  and  tear  his  heart  out ; — beat  one’s  head 
against  the  wall  in  the  hope  of  knocking  one’s  brains  out; — 
anything  to  get  rid  of  that  horrid  notion,  night  and  day  over 
one — I can’t  get  out ! ” 

Grace  had  never  seen  him  so  excited. 

“ But  you  are  safe  now,”  said  she  soothingly.  “ Oh,  those 
horrid  Eussians  ! ” 

“ But  it  was  not  Eussians ! — If  it  had  been,  I could  have 
borne  it. — That  was  all  in  my  bargain, — the  fair  chance  of  war  : 
but  to  be  shut  up  by  a mistake  ! — at  the  very  outset,  too — by  a 
boorish  villain  of  a khan,  on  a drunken  suspicion ; — a fellow  whom 
I wTas  trying  to  serve,  and  who  couldn’t,  or  wouldn’t,  or  daren’t 
understand  me — Oh,  Grace,  I was  caught  in  my  own  trap  ! I went 


494 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE 


out  full  blown  with  self-conceit.  Never  was  any  one  so  cunning 
as  I was  to  be  ! — Such  a game  as  I was  going  to  play,  and  make 
my  fortune  by  it ! — And  this  brute  to  stop  me  short — to  make  a 
fool  of  me — to  keep  me  there  eighteen  months  threatening  to 
cut  my  head  off  once  a quarter,  and  wouldn’t  understand  me,  let 
me  talk  with  the  tongue  of  the  old  serpent ! ” 

“ He  did  not  stop  you  : God  stopped  you  ! ” 

“ You’re  right,  Grace ; I saw  that  at  last ! I found  out  that 
I had  been  trying  for  years  which  was  the  stronger,  God  or  I ; I 
found  out  I had  been  trying  whether  I could  not  do  well  enough 
without  Him  : and  there  I found  that  I could  not,  Grace ; — 
could  not ! I felt  like  a child  who  had  marched  off  from  home, 
fancying  it  can  find  its  way,  and  is  lost  at  once.  I felt  like  a 
lost  child  in  Australia  once,  for  one  moment : but  not  as  I felt 
in  that  prison ; for  I had  not  heard  you,  Grace,  then.  I did 
not  know  that  I had  a Father  in  heaven,  who  had  been  looking 
after  me,  when  I fancied  that  I was  looking  after  myself ; — I 
don’t  half  believe  it  now — If  I did,  I should  not  have  lost  my 
nerve  as  I have  done  ! — Grace,  1 dare  hardly  stir  about  now,  lest 
some  harm  should  come  to  me.  I fancy  at  every  turn,  what  iff 
that  chimney  fell  ? what  if  that  horse  kicked  out  ? — and,  Grace, 
you,  and  you  only,  can  cure  me  of  my  new  cowardice.  I said 
in  that  prison,  and  all  the  way  home, — If  I can  but  find  her  ! — 
let  me  but  see  her — ask  her — let  her  teach  me  ; and  I shall  be 
sure ! Let  her  teach  me,  and  I shall  be  brave  again  ! Teach 
me,  Grace  ! and  forgive  me  ! ” 

Grace  was  looking  at  him  with  her  great  soft  eyes  opening 
slowly,  like  a startled  hind's,  as  if  the  wonder  and  delight  were 
too  great  to  be  taken  in  at  once.  The  last  words  unlocked  her  lips. 

“ Forgive  you  ? What  ? Do  you  forgive  me  ? ” 

“You  i It  is  I am  the  brute  ; ever  to  have  suspected  you. 
My  conscience  told  me  all  along  I was  a brute  ! And  you — 
have  you  not  proved  it  to  me  in  this  last  minute,  Grace? — 
proved  to  me  that  I am  not  worthy  to  kiss  the  dust  from  off 
your  feet  ? 55 

Grace  lay  silent  in  his  arms  : but  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him ; her  hands  were  folded  on  her  bosom ; her  lips  moved  as 
if  in  prayer. 

He  put  back  her  long  tresses  tenderly,  and  looked  into  her 
deep  glorious  eyes.  , 

“ There  ! I have  told  you  all.  Will  you  forgive  my  base- 
ness ; and  take  me,  and  teach  me,  about-  this'  Father  in  heaven, 
through  poverty  and  wealth,  for  better,  for  worse,  as  my  wife — 
my  wife  ? ” 

She  leapt  up  at  him  suddenly,  as  if  waking  from  a dream, 
and  wreathed  her  arms  about  his  neck. 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


495 


“Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall!  ray  dear,  brave,  wise,  wonderful  ]\fr. 
Thurnall ! come  home  again ! — home  to  God  ! — and  home  to 
me ! I am  not  worthy ! Too  mnch  happiness,  too  much,  too 
much  : — hut  you  will  forgive,  will  you  not, — and  forget — 
forget  ? ” 

And  so  the  old  heart  passed  away  from  Thomas  Thurnall : and 
instead  of  it  grew  up  a heart  like  his  father’s ; even  the  heart 
of  a little  child. 


the  exd. 


LOND0N  : 

E.  CLAY,  SONS,  AND  TAYLOR,  PRINTERS, 
BREAD  STREET  HILL. 


/ 

r 


